


The Holy Grail

by TrenchcoatBaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Dirty Dancing, Eye Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Roleplay, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Top Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 05:46:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14970371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrenchcoatBaby/pseuds/TrenchcoatBaby
Summary: To stop a dangerous ghost, Dean and Castiel go undercover at a gay dance club called the Holy Grail. As more club-goers end up dead, Dean and Cas grow closer...which might be the key to solving the case.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So even though I've been writing for a long time—not to mention reading Destiel religiously—this is my first ever fanfic! Ah! I'm so excited to have discovered this amazing new outlet.
> 
> This story is dedicated to my girls in the Trashcan, who have encouraged me and provided such endless love and support. Thank you [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for your brilliant editing, and shout-out to my beautiful betas [WaywardAF67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardAF67/pseuds/WaywardAF67), [WaywardJenn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardjenn/pseuds/waywardjenn), and [CBFirestarter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CBFirestarter/pseuds/CBFirestarter).

Dean parked the Impala in an empty spot and cut the engine. He whistled slowly and turned to Cas, riding shotgun beside him. “Well, if Chuck defined ‘blasphemy’ in the dictionary,” Dean said, “this place would be it.”

They were in Smith Grove, Virginia, parked outside a rectangular building topped with a steeple. The windows were wide and colored with glass, and the front door was heavy oak framed in stone.

Cas tilted his head towards Dean, looking puzzled. “Why would God care about the location of a homosexual establishment that promotes dancing and alcoholic beverages?”

Dean snorted, hands thrumming against the steering wheel. Though the structure of the building still resembled a church, the comparisons ended after that. The brick—which Dean imagined had originally been red or brown—was now painted dark gray. Above the door was a wide black awning, with a gold cup painted and the words HOLY GRAIL written in cursive.

“Dude, ‘cause it’s a gay club...in a church.” When Cas stayed silent, Dean looked at him, curious. He waved a casual hand towards the club, wondering if Cas understood the irony. Cas had been on-and-off earth for over a decade, Dean was well-aware, but he was still a socially awkward angel. A baby in a trenchcoat, one might say.

Cas glared at him. “Dean,” he said, a hint of sharpness in his voice, “I might have rebelled...a time or two. And I might be at the top of Heaven’s most wanted list. But as an angel, I can still feel the spiritual energy surrounding a centuries-old place of worship.” Dean opened his mouth, as if to interrupt, but Cas continued.

“So, to answer your question—yes. I realize this is a ‘gay club in a church’.” Cas paused and pointed upward, his face softening. “However, even if I wasn’t an angel, I would know.”

“How’s that?” Dean asked, eyes following Cas’s pointed finger.

“You could spot those flying buttresses a mile away,” he said simply.

Dean shook his head, stifling a laugh, and opened his car door. “I’ve got to get new friends,” he mumbled, just loud enough for Cas to hear. “The fact that you and Sam can say shit like ‘flying buttresses’ in casual conversation really cramps my style.”

Mentioning Sam, Dean wondered how he was doing at the morgue, examining the body of Aaron Samuels—a twenty-two year old man who had died at Holy Grail just last night. His injuries suggested he had been stoned to death, yet he had died in the middle of a crowded dance floor...with not a single stone in sight.

Dean patted at his suit pockets, confirming he had all the essentials—EMF detector, pistol with salt rounds, and a small iron crowbar (hard to carry, but helpful when entering a potentially haunted, church-turned-den-of-iniquity, Dean reasoned). Cas was still glaring at Dean, a response to the hunter’s earlier jab, but Dean nudged his elbow until Cas gave a grudging smile. They approached the front entrance side-by-side, the sun setting behind them.

The club inside was dimly lit, small lights anchored in each corner of the ceiling. They are really milking this church theme for every ounce it’s worth, Dean thought, noting the vaguely religious decor on the wall, the dramatically heavy curtains covering the windows, not to mention a wildly disturbing mural of Jesus performing fellatio on John the Baptist that Dean hoped to expunge from his memory. The front lobby had a tall, narrow table with a decorative bowl of holy water in the center. Cas gave him a raised eyebrow, and Dean nodded, knowing they both had the same thought: if demons are involved, that could come in handy.

There was no one standing in the lobby or behind the cash register, but Dean wasn’t surprised. It was still early, and according to the business hours posted outside, the club wasn’t open for another two hours. He pulled the EMF detector out of his pocket, hoping no one would decide to walk by. The sensors went off immediately, the frequency steady and rising. Cas began to wander around, standing in the doorway of a dance floor on the right. Dean saw the flash of a camera straight ahead, along with the familiar sound of—what he assumed to be—local cops discussing the crime scene. He stowed the EMF detector back into his pocket. Then he reached for Cas, fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his trenchcoat, requesting that the angel follow him without saying a word. Together, they walked towards the commotion.

They had entered what appeared to be the main dance floor, with a sleek bar in the back and an iron-sculpted DJ booth stationed up front. Dean had been right—the place was filled with cops. Still, he wasn’t sure what exactly they were photographing. There seemed to be no real evidence to speak of. Dean approached the locals, introducing himself and Cas (Agents Davis and Townshend, respectively) and then, shoulder-to-shoulder, they both squatted low enough to examine the floor.

“See those indentions?” one nearby cop said, running a hand along the uneven floor. Cas nodded, his face solemn. “Newly remodeled floors, the bartender swears. Not a bump anywhere in sight. Until last night.”

“Last night…” Dean stood again, thinking aloud. “When a man was stoned to death in the middle of a crowded club.” The cop nodded, his face stricken.

“Is the bartender around?” Cas asked him. “To aid in your investigation, we’d like to ask him a few questions.” Dean was surprised to see Cas taking charge, but he nodded in approval. The angel was really getting the hang of hunting. It only took a decade, stubborn little shit. Dean grinned, and Cas’s eyes flashed at him suspiciously.

“What?” he asked, as they parted ways with the local law enforcement and headed towards the bartender.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing, man.”

“Dean,” Cas insisted.

“Just noticing how far you’ve come,” Dean said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re a...a good hunter, Cas.”

Cas smiled, pleased by the compliment. Dean’s gaze flicked downward, watching the corners of Cas’s mouth, admiring his teeth—straight and white and perfect, Christ, Jimmy must have had braces as a kid. There was a hint of stubble growing on Cas’s face, and his lips...what was up with his lips? They were normally a light shade of pink, but today they were red and chapped, skin practically peeling from overuse. Dean felt his heartbeat quicken. He knew what red, chapped lips meant—hell, he’d had enough of them to know. Why the hell does Cas’s lips look they’ve just undergone the best makeout session of his life?

Dean didn’t realize they had reached the bar—and more importantly, were approaching the bartender they hoped to question—until Cas cleared his throat. Dean averted his gaze, his temples beginning to sweat. Is it weird that you were just checking-out another guy’s lips? No, no way. It’s just Cas. You were checking out Cas’s lips...as a friend. A concerned friend.

Dean was distantly aware that Cas was speaking, but it wasn’t until he heard his name—or, rather, his alias—that his mind wandered back to the case.

“Agent Davis and I would like to know, in your own words, what happened last night,” Cas said. Dean could sense the careful way Cas was measuring his words, and he felt a rush of guilt. This job was a milk run to him, but Cas still wasn’t comfortable with how much lying was required during a hunt. Dammit Dean, concentrate. You’re making Cas do all the heavy lifting.

Dean looked up, meeting the eyes of the bartender. He was young, barely in his twenties, his hair sculpted high with gel. He was wearing a neon orange cut-off, with faint tattoos painted on both arms. He was wiping a glass absently and staring at Dean, then at Cas, seeming amused.

“Right...what he said,” Dean mumbled, nudging a casual elbow towards Cas. “Anything you can tell us about Aaron Samuels would be great.”

The bartender threw his dishrag over his shoulder, then pulled up a stool. Dean and Cas followed, sitting across from him at the bar.

“First of all,” the bartender said, stretching his hand in their direction, “I’m Leo.” They both shook his hand, Cas participating in the action quite mechanically, as if he couldn’t understand why humans considered this necessary. Dean started to smile, then caught a glimpse of Cas’s chapped lips and felt irritated all over again.

“I bartend every weekend, so I always know the regulars,” Leo said, shifting on his stool. “This guy was...different.”

Cas leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Different how?”

“The way he was dressed—big baggy jeans, a sweatshirt.” He tilted his head towards the dance floor. Dean’s eyes traveled to the strobe lights, the metal poles and platforms, imagining how wild this room would be at night. “He was wasted, too. I cut him off an hour before last call, but he was still wrecked. Worst I’ve seen in a long time. His boyfriend had left him here, and he seemed pretty broken up about it.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asked, and Leo nodded.

“I don’t know his name, but they were obviously together. I thought the guy was cute at first, but once I realized he was taken, I backed off. He was your typical cub.”

Cas’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Cub?” he repeated. Dean shrugged, equally clueless for once.

Leo tilted his head, surprised by their ignorance. “You know—cub. A short, young, stocky gay guy?”

Cas stared blankly at him.

“Must be a generational thing,” Leo mumbled, and Dean tried not to glare.

“When did the attack happen?” Cas asked, clearly attempting to steer the conversation back into familiar territory. “After Aaron’s boyfriend left?”

Leo nodded. “The guy—you said his name was Aaron?—he was dancing in the center of the floor. There must have been two hundred people here, easy. We were closing in fifteen minutes, but Thursday nights are always busy—”

“Ladies’ night?” Dean interrupted, trying to joke, but Leo nodded. He pointed to a poster on a nearby pole, and Dean spotted the image of man wearing drag and walking onstage. “Thursdays are fabulous,” Leo informed him. “All queens drink free.”

Dean began to sputter, his face turning pink, and he hoped that Leo didn’t noticed.

“Anyways, everything was fine, then...people were screaming. It was so loud that I assumed someone had brought a gun, so I ducked behind the bar, thinking I’d have to dodge bullets.” Leo frowned, seeming stuck in the memory. “Anyways, once I realized someone was hurt, I followed the commotion. And the guy...Aaron...he was bloody, and pounded in, like his body was struck over and over with a meat tenderizer.” He stared at his hands, shuddering. “The guy had been beaten to death, it was obvious. But we have no clue how. Security always checks bags at the entrance, and then the cops came and searched everyone a second time…” He shrugged, though he looked shaken.

Cas turned to Dean, watching his reaction to the bartender’s story. Dean nodded, the movement a subtle confirmation, a “his story seems legit.” Cas nodded in agreement, eyes turned down in concentration. Dean looked back at Leo, deciding on their next move.

“Thank you for your help. We’ll be back tonight to continue our investigation,” he said, using his best “official” FBI voice.

Leo leaned in, appearing alarmed. “Why? Do you think it’ll happen again?”

“We’re not sure,” Dean admitted. He figured they were dealing with a vengeful spirit, but why that Aaron kid had been targeted was anyone’s guess. Maybe Sam would have some answers after his visit to the morgue. “But we’ll come back tonight to...monitor the situation.”

“You’ll leave the monkey suits at home, right?” Leo asked, earning another glare from Dean. “I-I just mean...everyone’s on edge, you know, after what happened last night. And two FBI agents staring everyone down while they party won’t exactly be good for business.”

Dean considered Leo’s point, and shared another glance with Cas. Finally, Dean nodded. “I suppose we’ll have to…” He looked at Leo’s tight tank-top and skinny jeans, and fought the urge to groan. “...dress the part.”

They stood to leave but Leo held up a finger, asking them to wait. “I’ll go on and get your wristbands,” he explained, walking towards the front lobby and leaving them alone. The cops were long gone, so Dean and Cas walked around the empty dance floor, instinctively circling each other.

“This is the work of a spirit, right?” Cas whispered.

Dean nodded. “No idea who or why, though. We’ll need Sam to do some research, cause this whole, ghost-inside-a-church-turned-gay-club thing is just...too much.”

Cas rolled his eyes and licked his lips, ready to respond, when Dean remembered... “What’s up with your lips, by the way? Been leaving the bunker to go frenching like some horny teenager?”

Cas’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

“Your lips.” Dean stepped closer to get a better look. His foot was nudging Cas’s, their knees touching. “They’re all red and chapped. Mine only look that way after…you know...”

He watched Cas’s eyes, warm and blue as always. His eyes traveled down, looking at Dean’s lips. Dean returned the look immediately, realizing they were both imagining the intense amount of kisses needed to make someone’s lips as swollen and red as Cas’s were at this exact moment….

“Dean,” Cas said, his face so close that Dean felt him exhale.

“Cas?” His voice was low and scratching, barely a whisper.

Cas continued to stare, perhaps longer than he should have, before finally saying, “I hate to disappoint you, but...I have not been frenching like some horny teenager.”

Hearing his words repeated by Cas broke the tension, and Dean laughed freely. He felt relieved, though he didn’t understand why. If Cas was getting some action, he should be celebrating….not sulking. “Dude, then what the hell?”

“Sam punched me during our training yesterday,” Cas explained. Dean knew Sam had been taking advantage of the bunker’s gym, hoping to get back to full strength after a vampire nest had left him injured last week. Cas had agreed to be his sparring partner. “I would have used my grace for healing, but then we found this case, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to waste energy on something so...cosmetic.” He lightly touched his lips. “They are strangely annoying, though. Swollen and cracked. I don’t know how humans handle such irritations.”

Dean smiled, unable to stop himself. “Ice...and chapstick,” he answered, hardly believing he was having this conversation with an angel of the Lord. “We’ll stop somewhere on the way the motel, and have you good as new.”

Behind them, Dean heard feet shuffle. Leo was standing in the doorway, watching them curiously. Dean wondered how long he had been standing there. “Here are your wristbands,” the bartender said, taking a step closer. Dean broke away from Cas and walked towards him, reaching for the wristbands in his hand.

“The FBI is smarter than I thought,” Leo commented.

Dean slipped the bands into his jacket pocket. He turned to Cas, then to Leo, looking confused. “In what way?”

“Oh, just the whole, going undercover-in-a-gay-club thing. This crowd—” he swept a dramatic hand around the club “—well, they can spot a straight dude from a mile away. The feds were right to send in the gay agents.”

He looked from Dean to Cas, smiling. “Around here, you two will fit in just fine.”


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel folded his hands and tried not to look at Dean. The task was becoming more and more difficult, however, as silence stretched on in the Impala. The angel usually shared an easy, companionable silence with his friend, and never felt the need to fill the space between them with unnecessary words. But Dean was on-edge...and that was never good.

Castiel stole a glance at Dean, hoping it would go undetected. The hunter was clutching the steering wheel and staring out the window, distracted. He stopped the Impala abruptly at a stop sign, and Castiel slid to his left, accidentally brushing shoulders with Dean. Dean froze at the contact, tension visibly burdening his shoulders.

Dean had been acting strangely since the bartender, Leo, had assumed they were gay. Castiel didn’t understand Dean’s unease with homosexuality, considering angels don’t identify with any particular gender or sexuality. Honestly, he thought Dean’s hang-ups were quite juvenile, but didn’t see any reason to start an argument when things were already tense.

“Apologies,” Castiel muttered, scooting back to his original position in the car. Dean nodded and said nothing. The angel slumped against the window, feeling oddly wounded by the physical and emotional distance growing between them. Lost in his thoughts, Castiel was surprised when the car took a sharp turn into a parking lot.

“Why are we—” Castiel began, confused, watching Dean park the Impala. After leaving the club, Dean had gotten off the phone with Sam, promising that they were on the way to pick him up from the morgue. “Aren’t we picking up Sam?”

“He can wait five minutes,” Dean grumbled, opening and shutting his door. Castiel followed, entering the store behind him. Dean went down aisles of medicines and cosmetics, comparing packages and prices. At first Castiel just observed him cluelessly, not remembering Dean’s current fascination with healing his lips. But eventually he remembered their earlier conversation, and Castiel smiled to himself. Despite Dean’s seemingly bad mood, he still couldn’t stop himself from taking care of Castiel. Not that I need taking care of, Castiel thought. But he didn’t mind the attention when it was coming from Dean.

After nearly fifteen minutes of deliberation—it seemed as though they were picking up Sam much later than expected—Dean was placing handfuls of medicated lip ointments and various flavors of chapstick in front of the cashier.

Castiel, who had watched the shopping trip quietly, finally turned to Dean. “All of this,” he began, as Dean pulled cash from his wallet, “is for...my lips?”

Dean cracked a small smile then, and Castiel felt relieved at the sight. He leaned forward, counting nearly ten items in the bag. “Is all this necessary?”

Castiel’s question wasn’t rhetorical, but curious. He still found humanity to be the messiest, most confusing, most worthwhile species on earth. He realized he was basing his opinion largely on Dean, but he wasn’t uncomfortable in that knowledge. He had known for a long time—years, in fact—that his feelings for Dean were significant and complex.

Dean shrugged, grabbing his change and tossing Castiel the bag. “You’re saving your angel mojo for the hunt, so you needed doctoring up,” he said lightly, as they walked back outside and re-entered the Impala. Thankful that the tension from earlier had somehow dissipated, Castiel began sorting through the purchases. He tried the mediated ointment first, figuring that was the most sensible approach. He layered the contents onto his lips, groaning in appreciation at the cooling sensation. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Dean staring at him, watching him, examining his lips...and then Dean shook his head and started the car with such urgency that Castiel nearly slipped in his seat again.

It was dark outside once they finally reached the morgue. Sam climbed into the backseat, mumbling, “You know, if I was thirty minutes late picking you up, I’d never hear the end of it…”

Dean rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to argue, but Castiel interrupted.

“What did you learn at the morgue?” he asked, attempting to find Sam’s face in the rearview mirror. Sam gave his brother one final glare, then turned his attention to Castiel.

Sam recounted everything he had discovered that afternoon: Aaron Samuel had, in fact, died from blunt-force trauma. The wounds were consistent with a stoning, some incisions shaped like circles. The corpse hadn’t provided any clues beyond that, though, so Sam had pried what information he could from the local mortician. According to him, Aaron had been an athlete in high school, the pride of the Smith Grove varsity football team. He hadn’t lived in town for several years, though, not since receiving an athletic scholarship to attend a Christian college in Florida. His family was deeply religious, and Aaron himself was a self-professed believer.

“Hold on,” Dean said, “how does a guy like that end-up dirty dancing in a gay club, getting hammered, then having a public fight with his boyfriend on drag queen night?”

Sam nodded. “I dunno, public persona versus private life? Seems like a lot to juggle, though. We should go interview his boyfriend and find out. Let’s grab some dinner, go over the files, and then head out—”

“You’ll have to fly solo, Sammy,” Dean interrupted. “Me and Cas are on ghost patrol.”

“Ghost patrol—but—you realize the club will be open tonight. Right?” Sam looked at his brother, eyebrows raised.

“And?” Dean said, though Castiel noticed his cheeks burning red.

Sam leaned in further from the backseat. “Seriously?” He turned, looking back and forth between Dean and Castiel. “You guys are really gonna do it?”

Castiel saw Dean’s jaw tighten, and—hoping to spare Sam the perplexity that was Dean’s attitude today—decided to answer.

“If by ‘do it’ you mean, pretend to be homosexual men in order to go undercover and solve the case…” Castiel applied more ointment to his lips, familiar now with the action. “Then yes. Dean and I are going ‘do it’...all night, in fact.”

Sam began laughing, his shoulders shaking, his body suddenly limp in the backseat. Castiel turned and watched him in bewilderment. Dean parked the Impala outside their motel and buried his face in his hands, Sam still laughing hysterically.

“Jesus Christ, Cas,” Dean groaned, voice muffled by his hands, “remind me later to tell you again what an ‘innuendo’ is.” 

  
***

While Dean showered and dressed in the bathroom, Castiel continued to discuss the case with Sam. They both agreed that the ghost’s motivation had to be religious—the implication of having a gay club housed inside a church was just too coincidental—so Sam agreed to research the church history for any notable events. They figured the ghost was probably targeting those he found sinful...but why had it attacked Aaron Samuels and no one else?

“Did the bartender tell you what had Aaron been doing that night?” Sam asked Castiel, his expression thoughtful.

Castiel nodded. “Leo said he was intoxicated, dancing, and fighting with his boyfriend.”

Sam leaned back in his chair. “That last one will be difficult to recreate,” he admitted. “But drinking and dancing, that’ll work.”

Castiel’s forehead wrinkled. “‘Work’ how?”

“Sometimes with a spirit, it helps to recreate the victim’s actions to see if it prompts the ghost to materialize,” Sam explained.

Before Castiel could reply, the bathroom door swung open. Dean was wearing his nicest pair of dark denim, though the hems were frayed and full of holes. The jeans were more form-fitting than Dean’s usual hunting attire, and Castiel tried not noticing how long and muscular his lower-body was. He had slipped on a simple and tight black t-shirt, one Castiel knew he usually wore underneath his flannels. The short sleeves accentuated Dean’s biceps, and Castiel felt himself sway in his chair, admiring the curvature of Dean’s arms. He was freshly shaved, hair washed and carefully sculpted, eyes piercing and green.

Castiel found himself speechless, mouth hung open at the sight.

Sam, however, was a different story.

“You look like a major douchebag,” he said, smirking. Dean grabbed his wet towel from the floor and threw it at Sam’s head.

“Screw you,” he replied, grabbing a pair of socks from his bag and slipping them on. “I’m just trying to dress the part.” Castiel’s eyes followed Dean, unable to avert his gaze.

“I don’t know, man,” Sam said, more gently this time. “You know there’s more to being gay than looking the part, right? Like, a lot more. Do you really think you and Cas can fool people?”

At the mention of Castiel, Dean’s eyes found the angel. He seemed surprised to find Castiel already looking at him...in fact, staring at him. Castiel wondered if he should feel self-conscious being discovered in this way, if maybe he should close his mouth and avert his eyes. But it was impossible, because now Dean was staring back at him—hard and intentional, eyes curious. His eyes traveled down to Castiel’s lips again and stayed there for a moment. “They look better,” he said, low as a whisper. Then he added, “Your lips, I mean. They’re healing.”

Castiel took a deep breath—though the action wasn’t really necessary for an angel—and tried to steady himself. He touched his lips lightly, and Dean continued to stare. “They feel much better. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean nodded, but didn’t avert his gaze. Castiel leaned forward, trying to understand the varying emotions he saw crossing Dean’s face: relief at Castiel’s healing, certainly. But the longer he stared, the more he saw warmth and familiarity, a pleasant sort of intimacy, and...Castiel subsciously bit his lower lip, trying to understand Dean’s expression. Dean followed the movement and his eyes turned hooded and dark as he gaped at Castiel, as if he craved something, as if he wanted...

Sam cleared his throat. “On second thought,” he said, breaking the silence, “you guys will be just fine.”

Before either of them could respond, Sam stood up and announced that Castiel needed to change his clothes, too. Castiel slipped his trenchcoat off his shoulders mechanically while Dean turned his back, loading his pockets with iron and salt rounds with sudden concentration.

After a few minutes of deliberation, Sam decided Castiel should borrow jeans and a shirt from Dean. Castiel shrugged and began to strip, his slacks pooling at his feet, his shirt unbuttoned before Dean turned around hastily.

“What the hell, Cas?” he demanded, hands waving at the angel in horror. “You can’t just—dudes don’t just—undress in front of each other!”

“You and Sam do,” Castiel answered matter-of-factly, standing now in only his boxers and a tight undershirt.

Disbelief flashed on Dean’s face. “Seriously? Jesus, Cas. Me and Sam are brothers. You and I are...”

Dean’s voice seem to leave him, anger slipping from his face. His mouth went slack and he started walking backwards, reaching for his keys...and colliding with the table instead. He stumbled, falling towards the door, but recovered quickly. He shot a dirty look at Sam, who was grinning at his brother’s spectacle, then turned to Castiel.

“Fine. Guess I’m the weirdo around here cause I don’t wanna watch Cas strip tease. Whatever. I’m just gonna be...outside. I think Baby needs, um, something or another. I’ll meet you outside whenever you’re not...you know. Naked.” Dean gave Castiel a final nervous glance and closed the door behind him.

***

Castiel was downing a flask full of Dean’s whiskey.

“Is this really necessary?” Castiel gasped, his throat burning from the taste. Dean had his hands in his pockets, smiling and amused. They were both leaned against the Impala and staring at the club across the street. The line outside was small, but it was only nine o’clock. Dean told him these sort of establishments grew more crowded as the night progressed. As usual, Castiel had taken his word for it.

“Oh yeah, it’s necessary,” Dean confirmed, as the angel handed back the flask. Dean tipped it sideways and frowned at little when he realized it was empty. “Well...damn. You could’ve left me some.”

“You told me to drink until I felt the burn,” Castiel explained innocently.

“Awesome. You wait until I hand you a flask full of whiskey to finally start following instructions,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel scoffed.

“Isn’t it unwise to drink during a hunt, anyways?” Castiel said, a question he had intended to ask Sam before he had gotten so distracted back at the motel. Distracted by Dean, and the clothes he was wearing, and the way he had looked at Castiel…

“Usually, yeah. But we’ve gotta try and become this thing’s next target.” Dean opened the car door and tossed the empty flask in the backseat.

“Hence, drinking and dancing?” Castiel asked, following Dean as he opened the trunk.

“Drinking and dancing,” Dean echoed. Castiel noted a hint of nervousness in his voice, but decided it was pre-hunt jitters. They filled their pockets with iron, salt rounds, and a small pistol—including Castiel, whose angel blade wouldn’t exactly be effective on a ghost. Dean slammed the trunk, then reached into his pocket, pulling out their wristbands. He handed one to Castiel, who easily fastened his plastic clasp. Dean’s seemed stuck, however, and he struggled with the clasp for a few minutes (stubbornly and much to Castiel’s annoyance), before finally accepting help. Castiel flipped Dean’s arm roughly—how is Dean Winchester the only human who can make me so irritated?—and wrapped his long fingers around the man’s wrist.

He expected Dean to pull away, to insistent (once again) on doing it himself. Instead, he stared down and watched Castiel’s hands. Slender but strong, Castiel’s fingers made short work out of the unruly clasp. The angel was struggling not to focus on the feel of Dean’s skin—how his hands were rough and calloused, his wrists firm and smooth. He found the task nearly impossible. Castiel slowed his pace, dragging his fingers more gently, his earlier irritation starting to dissipate. Dean was exhaling, the noise forceful and strained. Castiel clicked the wristband connector into place, but still held Dean, his fingers wrapped around the man’s wrist. Castiel knew he should release him now, knew how Dean felt about personal space. But touching Dean—even as minimally as this—made him feel a sudden surge of adrenaline, more than any battle or fight. It made Castiel want to touch his arm in soft, unhurried strokes, then gradually explore his back and hips until he was reaching lower, his movements less tender now and more frenzied as he gripped more and more, pulling Dean closer, a powerful and visceral instinct taking over—

“Cas,” Dean whispered. Castiel looked up, noticing Dean’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice was a forceful rumble. He was still clutching Dean’s hand.

“If...if we wanna salt and burn this bastard,” Dean said finally, and Castiel couldn’t decipher his tone—was that unease, or disappointment?—“then...I’m gonna need my hand back.”

Castiel nodded and untangled his hands, sliding them into the front pockets of his jeans. They walked together towards the club.

He felt strange wearing such casual clothing, not to mention Dean’s casual clothing, but this wasn’t the first hunt that had required unfamiliar apparel. The outfit Sam had selected wasn’t a perfect fit— considering Dean was slightly taller and bulker—but the bagginess didn’t bother him. What did bother him was that he smelled like Dean...like his detergent, of course, but Castiel could pick up on much more than that. Angels have superior senses, and Dean’s clothes were old, carrying years of musk and sweat and sweetness. Castiel followed Dean into the club feeling dazed and distracted.

But all thoughts of Dean were momentarily silenced once they entered the Holy Grail.

Everything Castiel had noted about the club hours ago was suddenly magnified: where the room had been dim, now was in near darkness, the only flashes of visibility coming from colored strobes and yellow spotlights. This afternoon there had been a subtle buzz of music playing, mostly in the background while the staff prepped; tonight, there was a DJ behind a wall of audio equipment, his hands shifting between decks and visibly turning the volume up louder. The music was a fast-tempo version of two songs mashed together, and while Castiel didn’t find the tune at all unpleasant, Dean turned to him and rolled his eyes.

“I need a drink,” he shouted over the music, and Castiel nodded and followed. The club had just opened for the night, so there was still plenty of space in the lobby and the dance floor; the bar, however, was incredibly crowded. Dean groaned at the sight.

“I refuse to listen to techno sober,” he growled, just loud enough for a group of nearby men to turn and give him a curious look. Dean glanced down, seeming embarrassed, and Castiel snorted and wandered back to the lobby. He had a suspicion that some of the religious decor on the wall was actually authentic, but he needed a closer look. He leaned into the wall, staring at a faded gold cross he suspected was from the early nineteenth century, when he felt a hand on his elbow.

“Whatcha drinking?” a small man asked, his voice friendly. He was very young—early twenties, Castiel guessed—but smiled confidently, stepping in closer.

“At the present moment, nothing,” Castiel answered, and the young man laughed.

“Let’s change that,” he suggested. “Can I buy you a drink?”  
  
Castiel opened his mouth, preparing to tell the man Angels don’t get thirsty, but thank you, when Dean rounded the corner. He was holding two shots of whiskey in each hand, his eyes scanning the room for Castiel. His eyes narrowed when he finally spotted the angel...and the man beside him.

“Real nice, Cas,” he said, walking stiffly, “abandon the guy who’s buying the booze.” Dean landed next to Castiel, their shoulders touching. He turned to the young man perched on Castiel’s left, and stared at him indignantly.

“Who’s your friend?” he asked, intending the question for Castiel but not removing his gaze from the stranger.  
  
“I actually didn’t get his name,” Castiel deadpanned, and Dean turned and glared.

“Sorry, my bad,” the stranger said apologetically, interrupting Dean and Castiel’s current glare-off. “I didn’t realize he was taken.”

“Well he is,” Dean snapped, color draining suddenly from his face. “I, I mean…” But the stranger was already gone, in search of other company. They stood together in silence before Castiel finally spoke.

“I don’t understand, Dean,” he said, leaning in closely. “Why were you so rude to that man? He only wanted to buy me a drink.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “Cas, for an angel who has literally been around since the beginning of fucking time, you’re a real idiot, you know that?” Castiel cut his eyes at Dean angrily, opening his mouth to argue, but Dean continued. “Buying someone a drink in a club is basically an invitation for sex.”

“But you just bought me a drink,” Castiel pointed out, looking at the shots of whiskey still in Dean’s hands. “Four of them, actually. And you’re not inviting me to engage in sexual intercourse—are you?”

Dean spluttered, eyes wide. “Dude. You can’t just say things like that.” He opened his mouth to speak again, but sighed, taking a shot of whiskey instead. “Two of them are for you,” Dean mumbled. He took his second shot, then handed Castiel the other two. “Here, drink up, you damn greedy angel.”

Castiel rolled his eyes, but accepted the liquor. “That still doesn’t explaining why you were rude to him. Why would you care if a man bought me a drink? Or if I accepted an invitation for sex?”

Dean’s expression went blank. Then he tightened his lips, as if he had just realized something. “Do you want that, Cas? We’re in the middle of case, with some homophobic assclown ghost wandering around, but screw it. I can handle this alone if you’d like to go over there and rob the cradle—”

“No,” Castiel interrupted, then wrinkled his forehead. “Wait, Dean. What do you mean? I don’t see any cradles nearby.”

Anger slowly vanished from Dean’s expression. He shook his head for a few moments, then grinned. “Cas, you are seriously something else.”

Castiel fought the urge to return the smile. His own curiosity hadn’t been satisfied, but he figured Dean’s bizarre behavior earlier had just been a human quirk. Dean and Castiel were just friends. Family, Dean had said on more than one occasion. Maybe it was normal to be resentful towards potential sexual partners on behalf of your friends and family… Dean hadn’t been jealous, as Castiel secretly hoped, but simply protective. The hunter was fiercely loyal; it was one of the many reasons Castiel had chosen him...him and Sam, he reminded himself...over his place in Heaven.

“We should return our attention to the case,” Castiel said, not meaning for his voice to sound as serious as it did. Dean’s smile slipped, but he nodded. Castiel took his two shots in quick succession, knowing he would need five times this amount to even feel slightly intoxicated. They made their way back to the bar, and Castiel smiled and greeted the bartender. If Leo wondered why two undercover FBI agents were emptying a fifth of whiskey between the two of them, he didn’t ask, just looked at them and smirked.

After a half-hour of shots, Castiel stood, beginning to sway. Dean noticed and steadied him by gripping his elbows.

“Onto step two of ghost patrol,” Dean said, and lifted an eyebrow towards the dance floor.

***

Castiel had never experienced anything quite like this.

It was just after midnight and there were bodies everywhere. Bumping him, pulling him, dancing close to him at every angle. He had never been in contact with so many people at once before, especially drunk and sweaty strangers. At first he tried to keep his eyes alert, searching for any signs of supernatural trouble, but the task had proved too difficult. It was nearly impossible to get a good sweep of the area because the main dance floor was too crowded, so he and Dean settled for a higher platform overlooking the club below. The music had somehow gotten louder throughout the night, the bass pounding in Castiel’s chest. His vision seemed slower, blurrier, which—especially in near darkness—the angel found unsettling. He squinted his eyes and looked around wildly, feeling panicked. Then he felt someone reach for his hand, a strobe light casting a harsh glow over the man’s face.

Dean. Castiel sighed in relief. Over the past few hours, while he and Dean had been split up, the angel had been touched, prodded, and propositioned by more people than he cared to count. The hunter placed his hand over Castiel’s, pulling him in closer.

“Dude,” Dean shouted over the music, “you’re totally wasted.”

Castiel instinctively scrunched his face up in protest, then swayed and grew dizzy. Given his current state, he decided that denial wasn’t his best course of action. “So are you,” he accused instead, and Dean shrugged.

“Hazard of the job,” he said, grinning. Castiel could feel a thin layer of sweat gathering under Dean’s hand, transferring to Castiel’s, the touch of skin against skin turning their palms slick. But rather than feeling repulsed by it—like he had with all the strangers he had encountered—the contact felt good to Castiel, strong and stabilizing. It had been disorientating to wander the club alone and drunk, hoping for a ghost to appear while dodging the advances of overzealous men and obnoxious bachelorette parties.

Having Dean at his side felt comforting.

“Have you seen anything yet?”

“No,” Castiel said, then added sheepishly, “though, I haven’t been dancing. I’ve felt foolish anytime I’ve tried.”

“What?” Dean asked, his voice barely audible over the music.

“I said no, but that I haven’t been dancing—”

“Dude, you’re gonna have to shout,” Dean interrupted.

Castiel took a long step, closing the distance between them. He wrapped a hand around the back of Dean’s head, intending to pull his ear closer. But then, he found himself distracted…

Dean’s hair was disheveled—largely thanks to sweat, body heat, and general exertion—but Castiel brushed his fingers through it anyways. He realized that this image of Dean...hair messy, skin coated in sweat, lips parted and waiting...made him feel flustered. More than flustered.  
Castiel was drunk and jumpy and...suddenly aroused.

It didn’t help matters that Dean had leaned into his touch, head tilted backwards. He looked at Castiel boldly, expression unruffled, as if challenging the angel to do more. To do something. Anything.

It was then that several things happened at once: the DJ shouted something indistinguishable into the microphone and changed the track. The club was filled with a fast and sensual beat, a sultry woman’s voice floating over a techno beat. Nearby groups on the platform turned in collective excitement, apparently recognizing the song. At least twenty people rushed towards Dean and Castiel, pushing to make their way forward. Dean, who had been facing Castiel moments ago, was shoved to the right, his foot almost sliding over the edge of the platform...before Castiel spun him around and pulled him backwards, hands on his hips. The crowd never noticed the incident—or if they did, they didn’t seem fazed by it. They continued rushing forward, hoping to get closer to the DJ. Dean and Castiel found themselves surrounded, the unintended center of a massive dance pit. There were bodies pressed everywhere, brushing and bumping, pushing them further against each other.

Castiel breathed against Dean’s neck, trying to calm down. His hands were still wrapped around the man’s hips, partly in a honorable way—hoping to keep the man safe and steady—and partly…

...partly because Castiel had wanted this—this warmth and adrenaline, this sudden contact between his body and Dean’s. He had always wanted to explore his feelings in a more physical way, but he never imagined how good it could feel to be pressed together like this. He tried not to move, fearful that one overtly-intimate touch might make Dean freeze up, might make him realize the implications of being held like this. But a moment later, someone in front of Dean stumbled backwards and pushed against him. Dean stumbled, and then...Dean was rubbing against Castiel, ramming his body into the angel’s front over and over. The angel gasped at the impact, the density of Dean’s back and legs and bottom making him woozy. They began moving together, Dean rolling his hips and setting the pace; they were more colliding against each other than dancing, but Castiel had no complaints. His erection had turned painful, constricted by his borrowed jeans, and he found the friction of Dean against him to be thrilling and maddening and not nearly enough.

His hands moved from Dean’s hips to his thighs, kneading the toned muscles he knew were there. Then they traveled upward, fingers grazing over Dean’s zipper, gasping when he felt a bulge in his jeans. Dean shuddered and dropped his head, back arched and curled against Castiel. The angel ran his hand slowly over Dean’s zipper again and the man panted, biting his lip. Castiel felt himself come undone. Every ounce of logic was replaced by an overwhelming need to unbutton Dean’s pants and kiss his neck and take his aching member in-hand—regardless of the fact that they were dancing on an overcrowded platform, in a very public setting, supposedly hunting a ghost. Castiel’s hands were frantic, hoping to memorize the shape of Dean’s erection through his jeans, his curled length pushing against Castiel’s hand.

“Cas...” Dean moaned, pushing his hips further back with surprising fierceness, rubbing deeper and deeper. Castiel tightened his grip on Dean, a buildup growing between them as they rutted and panted and drew closer to the edge…

And then there was screaming. On the main floor below there was a woman lying on her back, covered in blood. Her wounds, Castiel deciphered, were shaped round as stones.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean knocked on the door and squinted, shielding his eyes from the sun. Sam was standing nearby with his hands in his suit pockets.

“Don’t you think it’s a little early for this?” Dean grumbled.

“Early for her, or early for you?” Sam asked sardonically. He leaned forward and pressed the button for the doorbell, waiting patiently. Dean cut his eyes at his brother. He was so _not_ in the mood today. A woman had died last night on his watch, though not before he had dirty-danced with Cas and probably ruined their friendship forever. Goddammit, _Cas_ … Dean’s stomach flipped just thinking about the angel. He had known for a while, years if he was being honest, that there was more than friendship brewing between them. But to finally act on their feelings during a case, in the middle of a club, rutting their hard-ons against each other like fucking teenagers? They hadn’t even kissed yet but Dean now knew the general shape of Cas’ dick...which was _hugely_ impressive, but still. What the fuck? _Why did I escalate things last night? What the hell is wrong with me?_

Dean felt embarrassed by how intensely he had reacted to Cas—his hands on Dean’s hips, his touch searching all over Dean’s body. He remembered Cas’ breath, suggestive and warm against his neck. He couldn’t remember being turned on that much, that quickly, in…

Jesus. Probably ever.

But he was worried about how Cas was processing everything. Once the situation had turned deadly, they had both reverted back to hunting mode, getting witness statements and discussing the situation with the local police. Afterwards Sam had joined them, and Dean was grateful for his brother’s help, but...he really, really needed to talk to Cas alone.

He imagined his angel was probably _freaking out_ and he didn’t know what to do to comfort him. Standing now on the porch, in a quick moment of clarity, Dean realized he was freaking out, too. Part of him was also thrilled, as if the dam that kept their friendship strictly platonically had finally collapsed. But now things were muddled and confusing, and he didn’t want to get his hopes up if...if Cas had only been playing a part. If he had only danced with him like that because they were undercover, and that’s what was expected at a place like the Holy Grail.

So, no. He was not in the mood for Sam’s trademark sass.

“It’s just early,” Dean said irritably. “Or have you forgotten that Cas and I were at the club...or _the crime scene_...until four in the freakin’ morning? Not to mention this chick’s girlfriend just died hours ago, and we’re banging on her door at nine a.m. on a Saturday morning like a damn Jehovah’s Witness.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him, surprised by the outburst. “Jeez, Dean. Maybe I should’ve left you to do research and asked Cas to tag along instead.”

Dean’s glare deepened. “Yeah, right. Like you and Cas could be partners.”

Sam laughed incredulously. “Wow. Possessive much? He _is_ allowed to hunt with someone other than you, you know.”

Dean turned his head and said nothing. Any argument he could make—like how _he_ was the one who shared a “profound bond” with the angel and therefore, always partnered with him whenever he was around, thank you very fucking much—would only make Sam goad him more. Or worse...make him suspicious. As badly as Dean wanted to talk to Cas, he equally knew that he did _not_ want to discuss any of this within a hundred-foot radius of his nosy little brother.

“Dean,” Sam said softly, pulling on his shoulder, “what’s going on with you?”

Dean cleared his throat, mumbling something about not getting his standard three hours of sleep, then ranted about how the motel lobby had been out of coffee that morning. Sam narrowed his eyes skeptically, but when the front door finally opened and the grieving girlfriend answered the door, he turned to her and frowned sympathetically. They pulled out their FBI badges and she stepped out of the doorway, inviting them inside.

The woman who had died last night, Sarah Blankschaen, couldn’t have been more different from Aaron Samuels. Whereas Aaron had been closeted—Sam had interviewed his boyfriend the night before, confirming their suspicions—Sarah had been in a committed, and incredibly public, relationship with her girlfriend for over ten years.

“Had Sarah been drinking?” Dean asked, and the girlfriend blinked back tears and shook her head.

“Not at all. It was my birthday and she was the DD. To be honest—” she leaned into the couch, a frown on her lips “—she really didn’t even want to be there. She hates dancing, especially at places like Holy Grail. It’s not her scene.”

 _Well_ , Dean thought, _there goes that whole “drinking and dancing” theory. No wonder me and Cas weren’t targeted._ He sighed, frustrated that they still had no clue what motivated this ghost to appear to only to certain people, much less murder them.

“‘Places like Holy Grail,’” Sam echoed, his voice curious. “Do you mean...Sarah wasn’t into gay clubs? Or just clubs in general?”

The girlfriend narrowed her eyes, wiping a tear off her cheek. “Does it matter?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a glance, wondering how much to tell her.

“We’re not sure,” Dean said finally, “but…” He cleared his throat, scrambling for a ghost-free theory he could actually share. “We think these murders might be the result of a hate crime.” _Hey, close enough._

The girlfriend’s eyes grew wide. She stood up suddenly, pacing, arms swinging erratically at her sides. “Of fucking _course_ they are,” she mumbled. “God, why didn’t I see it before? We’ll have...a vigil, a rally, maybe both. We’re gonna call this homophobic asshole out and get some justice. I’ll spread the word about what’s happening. I’ll call every news station in Virginia if I have to.”

Sam looked at Dean with panicked eyes. Dean shared his brother’s worried expression—the _last_ thing they needed was a bunch of media attention, no matter how noble the cause. More people being involved meant more danger, and more opportunities for people to be targeted.

“That’s a great idea, but um...maybe wait a few days? Until our investigation has more information to share,” Sam said, trying to keep his voice light.

“No, it has to be now—”

“My partner’s right,” Dean said firmly, not meaning to interrupt, but continuing all the same. They needed to keep the Holy Grail vacant and closed until this son of a bitch was salted and burned. They couldn’t draw more attention to the situation—people’s lives depended on it. “It isn’t safe, trust us. We’re on your side.”

***

A half-hour later, Sam and Dean stopped by the local diner for a late breakfast. They snagged a corner booth in the back, and Sam nodded his head towards the clock on the wall. Dean followed Sam’s nudge, then rolled his eyes.

“Dean, would you look at the time? Some might consider this—”

“Don’t you dare say it—”

“Brunch,” Sam finished, flashing a mischievous grin. It was an old argument, one where Dean insisted that brunch was an abomination because no one had any business eating breakfast after ten o’clock. _Nothing good can come from millennials with mimosas_ , he had argued, and Sam had laughed for almost an hour. That had been a good day.

Dean smiled to himself, thinking about the memory. He had been hard on Sam today, impatient and snippy, taking out his frustration with the Cas-situation on his brother. The waitress came and took their order, and after she walked away, Dean leaned across the table and sighed.

“Look, man. I’m sorry about this morning, for being such a…” He frowned, struggling to find the word.

“Dick?” Sam offered with a smile, his tone lighthearted.

“Hey! Jeez. I was trying to apologize here,” Dean grumbled.

Sam put his hands up apologetically. “Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood.” He peered forward, examining his brother’s face. “What’s going on, Dean? You look torn up about something, and it can’t just be this case.”

Dean groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You’re not gonna like it,” he said through his hands.

“Try me.”

Dean sighed again, finally slipping his hands off his face. He felt Sam staring at him, but he couldn’t meet his gaze. He found a spot on the floor and stared intently.

“Me and Cas...we had a...a moment. I guess. Last night.”

“‘A moment’?” Sam repeated, his eyebrows raised. When Dean said nothing, his brother continued. “And...what does that mean? Exactly?”

Dean rolled his eyes. Admitting this was hard enough—now his supposedly brainiac of a brother couldn’t pick up on context clues. “Jesus, Sammy, should I draw you a diagram?” he said. “We-we got...physical. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sam said blankly. He blinked, processing the information. Then his eyes narrowed. “Wait, you got into a fight with Cas? _Seriously_ , Dean? After everything he’s been through and everything he’s done for us—”

“Wait, what?” Dean shouted, his voice rising several octaves. “What the fuck—no! We weren’t fighting! It was the opposite!”

Sam scrunched his eyebrows together, seeming bewildered, but eventually his face softened.

“‘The opposite,’” he echoed, a gradual look of realization crossing his face. Then he grinned, the corners of his mouth turned up wider than Dean had ever witnessed.

“Knew it,” Sam said, his eyes beaming.

“Oh sure,” Dean said sarcastically, “you ‘knew it.’ All I had to do was tell you _to your face_ and then wait ten minutes for you to catch on. You’re practically Sherlock Holmes.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean I knew _that_. I meant, I knew there was something going on with you and Cas. More than usual, anyways.”

“‘More than usual?’” Dean repeated, blinking vacuously.

“Dude,” Sam said. “Are you trying to tell me there hasn’t been something going on? For years? All the grand, romantic speeches, the intense eye contact, the lack of personal space? Or...you keeping his trenchcoat whenever he died and hoarding it like a prized possession? And what about that mixtape—”

“Okay, okay,” Dean interrupted, feeling flushed. “I don’t need a rundown of me and Cas’ greatest hits right now, okay? I need—fuck...I don’t know what I need.”

Dean rubbed his temples, the beginning of a headache starting to form. The waitress approached them again, sliding their plates on the table, and Dean had never been more relieved to see greasy breakfast food in his life. They began eating, the booth filled with uneasy silence.

When he looked up, Sam was holding a forkful of something green—good god, did he really order salad _for breakfast_?—and stared at his brother.

“So,” Sam said. “Do you regret it?”

Dean nearly choked on his mouthful of bacon. “No! No, well...kind of? I mean—come on. What kind of question is that?”

“One you clearly need to answer,” Sam supplied, taking a long sip of coffee, “‘cause it sounds like you’re confused.”

Dean glared at him, then pushed his plate away, his appetite dwindling. He leaned into the booth and tried to remind himself to breathe. Sam waited patiently, finishing off his breakfast. The waitress was clearing their plates and sliding the bill on the table when Dean finally spoke again.

“I regret the way it happened,” he admitted. “On a case, in a club, like it meant nothing. Cas...he deserves better than that.” _He deserves better than me_ , he thought, but resisted saying it out loud.

Sam smiled gently. “So, it did mean something to you?”

“Of course it did, Sam,” Dean snapped, answering instinctively, without giving it much thought. “This is Cas we’re talking about it. He’s not just family...honestly, I don’t think he ever was ‘just family’ to me, you know? He’s...he’s…”

_He’s everything to me._

The thought left Dean stunned.

“I gotta talk to Cas,” he blurted out.

“Wait, what—” Sam sounded confused, but Dean had momentarily forgotten that he was even there. His mind was too busy racing.

_I want Cas...I want him bad. But not just his body...though I want that, too. But I want his heart. I want his time. I want to rub his shoulders when he’s stressed out and wash his clothes after we go hunting. I want to watch Dr. Sexy with him, even though he doesn’t understand it, and kiss him during the commercials. I want to go on long drives, just the two of us. I want to take him on a picnic and hold his hand, and I don’t even fucking care how girly that makes me, I just want it. I want Cas._

Dean was pulling his phone from his pocket. “I have to talk to Cas. I-I have to tell him something. I have to know what he’s thinking right now.”

He had ignored this feeling for years, never allowing himself to imagine something so satisfying. But the yearning to be near Cas, to be closer, had always been there. And even though there would always be apocalypses to prevent and angels and demons to fight, this potential relationship with Cas...well. It was the closest Dean would ever be to an apple pie life. And it was worth fighting for.

Dean scrolled through his recent call list, exhaling when he saw Cas’ name. This was it. He was about to call Cas and tell him everything…

That was, until Sam reached over the table and pulled Dean’s phone away.

“What the hell,” Dean protested, eyes wide and angry.

“Dude,” Sam said reasonably. “Were you about to confess your feelings to Cas over the phone, in a diner, with your little brother sitting across the table?”

 _Jesus Christ_. “Maybe,” Dean mumbled, his cheeks flushing.

“And they say romance is dead,” Sam said.

“Fine. I get your point. I’ll...I’ll do it in person?”

“Much better,” Sam said, nodding.

Dean stood then, feeling a surge of adrenaline. “I’ll do it right now. I’ll go to the motel—”

“Dean, we’re in the middle of a case.” Sam leaned forward, his face sympathetic. “I want you and Cas to have your moment, I really do, but don’t you think you should wait? There are lives at stake.”

“The Holy Grail is closed for now,” Dean argued. Sam’s phone buzzed, and he leaned over, staring at the screen. Dean scowled impatiently, still trying to make his point. “No people means no threat. We have time to regroup, and time for me and Cas to talk about...everything.”

“You mean it _was_ closed,” Sam corrected. He shoved his phone into Dean’s hand, revealing a live video of Sarah Blankschaen’s girlfriend speaking directly into the camera, her voice shaky but determined.

“Again, let me repeat the invitation. Tonight we’re having a candlelight vigil for my girlfriend and Aaron Samuels, who were brutally killed by a coward perpetrating hate crimes against the LGBTQ community in Smith Grove,” she said. “Everyone, please come show your support at the Holy Grail tonight at eight o’clock. Immediately following the vigil, the Holy Grail will be open to the public, twenty-one and over. I’ve been told that half of tonight’s revenue will be donated to the Pride Foundation...which is truly amazing. Friends, families, and allies—come out tonight and show your support. Please...don’t let Sarah and Aaron die in vain.”

Dean pulled the phone forward, checking to see how many views the video had received. Two thousand already, with the number steadily rising.

“Son of bitch,” he grumbled.

***

Sam and Cas spent the rest of the afternoon quietly researching the history of the church, attempting to pinpoint the identity of the ghost. Dean attempted to help, but found the local database long and difficult to wade through. He had barely slept the night before and felt his eyes growing heavy the longer that he read. When he wasn’t about to fall asleep, he was distracted by Cas, feeling aware of his every movement. They sat side-by-side at the table, elbows propped up, the occasional elbow or knee brushing against each other. The contact wasn’t intentional, Dean knew, but after last night...after Cas had grabbed his hips and touched his thighs and palmed Dean’s dick through his jeans...well. Things were understandably awkward.

It didn’t help that Sam was sitting across them in the motel room, witnessing their discomfort and grinning like an asshole. _Now I know how a goldfish feels_ , Dean thought, finally shooting his brother his most irritated glare. Sam shook his head, still smiling.

“So get this,” Sam said eventually, breaking the silence. Dean and Cas glanced up. “Over the centuries, at least a dozen people have died in the church, usually from natural causes. But then there’s this one guy, Edward Lowry. He might be our guy.”

“My research has led me to the same conclusion,” Cas said grimly. “Lowry died inside the church, but there’s no cause of death listed.”

“That’s not much to go on,” Dean interrupted, rubbing his eyes in exhaustion. “It was the early nineteenth century, man. Death records were spotty at best.”

“True,” Sam answered, “but what about the rumors?”

“Yes,” Cas said, nodding towards Sam. “I found those to be particularly suspicious.”

Dean looked between the two of them and narrowed his eyes. “You guys should really get a room whenever you’re doing the whole, creepy-Avatar-tail-connection thing.”

Cas tilted his head, trying to understand the joke, but Sam rolled his eyes. “You know that movie’s almost a decade old, right?”

“And a classic,” Dean defended, noticing that Cas was typing on the laptop in front of him.

“Dean,” Cas said, his eyes still glued on the computer screen, “is there a reason we’re discussing an ‘animated fantasy and science fiction film,’ rather than this case?”

“Dude, I’ve told you before,” Dean said, sneaking a peak at the nearby laptop. “Stop googling every reference you don’t understand. The internet is full of spoilers.”

Cas closed his browser and glared impatiently. Dean had been avoiding his glance all day, mostly because Sam had been around and annoyingly observant. But there was a variety of stronger reasons he had been dodging the angel’s gaze. On a subscious level, Dean was battling his own confusion ( _did liking Cas make him gay?_ ), not to mention a heap of insecurities and doubt ( _what if Cas wasn’t actually into him?_ ), and abandonment issues he could never seem to shake ( _would Cas leave him whenever this case was over?_ ).

But finally, for the first time today, he lifted his head and looked at Cas.

His earlier resolve at the diner—the reckless impulse to confess everything—had started to wane. Part of him was angry at Sam for thwarting his attempt, worried he would never be able to tap into that instinctual bravery again. Had he simply lost his nerve? No, it was more than that. There was another part of him—a much larger part, at the moment—that was thankful his brother had stopped him. He still wanted Cas, that hadn’t changed and probably never would. But right now, his want was overpowered by the desperate fear of messing this up. Could he really jeopardize their friendship just because of _his_ feelings? Wasn’t that selfish?

Dean blinked, as if slowly regaining consciousness, and he realized he had been staring into Cas’ eyes this entire time. How long had it been? Seconds? Minutes? Cas was staring back. Blue, that fucking shade of blue. The angel’s eyes were so striking that sometimes it made Dean angry. Wasn’t it intimidating enough to be a literal warrior of god? Did Cas also have to choose a vessel with a face that belonged in a fucking fashion magazine? Jesus Christ...how’s a guy supposed to think with _those eyes_ looking at you…?

Dean finally noticed that Cas’ expression had lost its earlier irritation. All talk of ghosts or pop culture references had been replaced with...what? Concern? Dean tried to smile softly, hoping to set Cas at ease, but the smile was strained, full of despondency and doubt. Cas’ head was tilted, mouth slightly open, searching Dean’s face. They were desperately trying to understand each other, to communicate without words. Dean refused to looked away, knowing he couldn’t if he tried. Wasn’t this a sort of language they shared? These long, unapologetic gazes felt like Cas was cupping his hand around Dean’s ear, lips close enough to brush skin, voice low and intimate as a whisper…

“—which is definitely suspicious,” Sam concluded. “Unless you have another theory, Dean?”

Dean’s head jerked towards his brother so quickly he wondered if he pulled a neck muscle. Leaving Cas’ gaze felt surreal, even startling, as if just remembering there was a world outside of them that had continued spinning.

“What—um, sorry.” Dean coughed, his throat suddenly dry. “What was that?”

Sam grinned condescendingly. “Lost in thought there, Dean?”

“No, no, um...I’m just...tired.” _Well, it’s not a lie._ Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stay focused. “Let’s just get back to the case.”

After another prolonged pause, Sam and Cas eventually began filling in the gaps of research Dean had missed. They pieced the story together from newspaper articles, a historical blog, and a social media thread that Dean was too skeptical to classify as evidence. Still, multiple sources corroborated the tale: in the early nineteenth century, Edward Lowry had been a local butcher in Smith Grove. The Protestant revolution in town was thriving, including an overzealous preacher and his congregation, who held service in the church now known as the Holy Grail. Lowry was a church member and professed believer, but in the spring of 1818, he was publicly accused of sodomy. Unwilling to repent, but still boldly attending service each week, the congregation eventually stoned him to death, attempting to save his soul.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dean swore, leaned into his chair. He felt Cas stir beside him and braced himself, expecting to be scolded for his word choice. But the angel only nodded.

“That humans perform such unspeakable acts against each other in God’s name is an affront I will never understand,” he said. Dean itched to reach his hand over and touch Cas’ shoulder, loosening the tension hiding beneath his trenchcoat, but stopped himself.

“It’s a god-awful story, Cas. But maybe it’s _just_ that,” Dean said. “This theory is based mostly on word of mouth. It’s practically folklore.”

“At this point, it’s all we have to go on, Dean,” Sam argued. “And the candlelight vigil is starting in—” He checked his wristwatch and winced. “—an hour. I checked the online event page, and hundreds of people have RSVPed.”

“So, what?” Dean closed his laptop, feeling defeated. “We do a standard salt-and-burn and hope Edward was our ghost?”

“I don’t see any other option,” Sam said wearily. “Let’s grab some food—we haven’t eaten since breakfast—then head to the vigil. You can stay once the club opens and keep an eye on things, to see if Edward reappears. Cas and I will head the cemetery once it’s dark enough.”

“ _You_ and Cas?” Dean repeated. He was aware of how he sounded—territorial, desperate, whatever. He would deal with Sam’s teasing later. But he hated hunting with Cas if they had to split up. Sam had been a hunter his whole life, and was probably the best hunter living (apart from his badass older brother, of course). But Cas had always seemed more vulnerable. Angelic superpowers aside, Cas was too hasty, too eager to sacrifice himself. No way Dean would leave him during a potentially life-or-death situation—especially not now, with so much left unsaid.

“Yes, _me_ and Cas,” Sam repeated. “I-I figured you’d both be less...distracted that way.”

It took Dean a moment, but once the words finally set in, he was flooded with horror. Did Sam really think that as soon as Dean and Cas were together again at the Holy Grail, they’d instantly be jerking each other off to a techno song? What the fuck? Could he not give them _a little more_ credit than that?

Cas glared at Dean, his expression full of disbelief, as if to say— _you and I haven’t even discussed what happened last night, but somehow, you found time to confide in your little brother?_

Dean’s cheeks glowed red. He looked down, sweating, suddenly keen to avoid everyone in the room. “I-I need to change,” he mumbled, realizing he was still wearing his FBI suit from this morning. He grabbed his duffel bag and fled, locking the bathroom door. He turned on the facet and flushed his face with cold water, staring at his reflection in the mirror, willing himself to breathe.

***

By the time Dean parked the Impala, a large crowd had already gathered outside the Holy Grail. A makeshift stage had been assembled from a long cut of plywood, where everyone was gathered. Just outside the club entrance, where the bouncer usually checked IDs, there was a table filled with photographs: Sarah Blankschaen and her girlfriend, Aaron Samuels and his friends. The photos made Dean’s inside ache. He had seen so many deaths, many that he could’ve prevented...if only he had be quicker or smarter or stronger. If only he could have saved them all.

Once they joined the masses, Sam, Dean, and Cas were each handed white candlesticks. The crowd around them was quiet, many in obvious mourning. Over the hum of murmurs and distant conversation, Dean realized several people were already crying. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound. He was still unnerved by the unspoken awkwardness currently plaguing them, which was only made more apparent by the fact that Dean and Cas hadn’t spoken yet. Not _really_ , anyways. All day they had discussed the case and the weather and the dinner menu at the diner, but nothing about what had happened between them. Looking at Cas standing beside him, silent and unsure, Dean felt like he should apologize for something...but for what, exactly, he didn’t know.

After twenty minutes of waiting, Sarah Blankschaen’s girlfriend—what was her name again? Had Dean even bothered asking?—stepped onto the platform with a cordless microphone in-hand. She welcome everyone quietly and restated the facts of the case, along with “FBI-confirmed hate crime activity,” causing Sam to shoot Dean his best bitch face. By now over two hundred people had gathered around them. There was even a photographer wandering around, wearing a press badge. Dean debated for the hundredth time that day if it was worth trying to shut this shit down, even pulling the whole FBI-crime-scene card. But that would draw too much attention to them, and anyways, Sam and Cas would be leaving in an hour to go salt-and-burn poor ole Edward. If Dean could just keep everyone alive until then, maybe this case could finally be over...and he could finally fix things with Cas.

The outer crowd had their candles lit with lighters, and leaned into the person beside them, sharing the flame. A woman to Dean’s left shared hers, and he instinctively tilted his candle to the right, watching the tip of Cas’ wick grow black. It was just after dusk, with enough light to make out colors and shapes, but not the angel’s expression. Cas turned dutifully and lit Sam’s candle, then pivoted forward again, eyes focused on the speaker on-stage. Dean was vaguely aware that members of the crowd were volunteering to share testimonials about the victims, many mentioning the Holy Grail’s impact on the LGBTQ community, but Dean wasn’t paying attention. He was stealing glances at Cas, hoping he would turn and look at him. Dean tried not to notice how his candle marked Cas in faint light, his lips pink and glowing, the top half of his face silhouetted in soft shadow. But Cas was breathtaking and Dean couldn’t _not_ notice. He couldn’t not stare. For the second time that day, the world was turned on mute and Dean was overcome by the sight of his angel.

But something was wrong. Cas’ eyes were wide and heavy. He shook his head—was he upset? Dean reached for his elbow, making purposeful contact for the first time all day, but Cas shrugged him off instantly. Someone was crying on stage, but Dean didn’t notice who or why. He was too busy following Cas—Cas, who was currently weaving through the crowd, almost knocking Sam to his feet in his insistence to leave. Dean shared a perplexed look with his brother, but continued after Cas, calling his name in a persistent whisper. Finally, once they had separated from the crowd and were approaching the entrance to the Holy Grail, Dean grabbed his hand.

“Cas, what’s going on—” He spun the angel around, forcing Cas to face him.

“Dean, can I please be alone?” Cas asked, his voice quiet but forceful.

The words stung, but Dean didn’t drop his hand. “Nope, sorry. Request denied. Whatever it is, you’re not handling it alone.”

Cas let out an impatient huff. “I’ve handled everything else alone today. What’s so different now?”

Dean knew he wasn’t referring to the case, but to _them_ , and what had happened last night. An overwhelming sense of guilt began to creep over him. He had known Cas might be confused and upset, but he still hadn’t checked on him all day.

“I-I’m sorry. I should’ve said something,” Dean admitted, the back of his throat burning. “I wanted to, I really did, but Sammy told me to wait—”

Cas freed his hand from Dean’s grip, eyes flashing indignantly. “That’s another thing. Why would you talk to Sam about this before you talked to me?”

“Dammit, I _knew_ you were mad about that—”

“I’m not mad, Dean,” Cas answered with a sigh. He bit his lip, eyes cast down, looking wounded. “I was hurt and confused, that much is true. But listening to those people on stage—acknowledging the persecution and hardship they face in your society, simply to love who they love...I understand now why you regret it. I didn’t before, but now I do. Dean, we can continue on as we always have, and I promise to never...make an unwanted advance on you again.”

Dean was only distantly aware that he wasn’t breathing. “Cas…”

“Tell Sam that whenever he’s ready to go to the cemetery, I’ll be inside waiting,” he said formally. He walked towards the entrance and flashed his FBI badge, quickly gaining entrance. Dean watched him leave, his heart pounding in his chest. What had just happened? Cas had gotten everything wrong, absolutely fucking everything. But he had given Dean an out, an excuse, a way to omit the truth and squash whatever was developing between them. All Dean had to do was return to the crowd, finish out this case, and in a few weeks, he could boil their whole encounter to pushy crowds and too much alcohol...

Instead he followed Cas inside, barely even flashing his badge before entering. His legs were shaking and he suddenly felt nauseous, but he couldn’t let Cas think he wasn’t wanted...not when that was so far from the truth. If he was being honest, Dean knew he wanted Cas _too_ much. He wanted every single part that the angel was willing to give, body and soul, and he wasn’t ready to give up yet. Not if there was a chance Cas felt the same way.

He found Cas leaned against the bar and talking to Leo. Only a few minutes had passed, but already, they looked deep in conversation. Leo was shaking his head and pouring whiskey into a shot glass. The angel downed it, his expression stiff as stone. Dean practically ran over to them, trembling with adrenaline. Cas turned and saw him approaching, head tilted in confusion.

“Dean—”

“I don’t regret it,” Dean blurted out. Cas stared at him, comprehension slowly melting the scowl off his face.

“But then, why…? ”

Leo cleared his throat, tossing a dish-rag over his shoulder. “I’ll just be...somewhere else,” he mumbled, though he gave Cas a quick wink before walking away. _Huh. Gotta remember to ask Cas about that later._

Dean took a deep breath, wondering what to say and where to start. Maybe a lighthearted “I totally wanna bone you” would break the tension? Or a super dramatic “hey, I know you’re a thousand-year-old celestial being, but I might be in love with you, wanna head back to the bunker and cuddle”?

_Jesus fucking Christ. Pull yourself together, Winchester._

“Listen,” Dean said slowly, still not knowing what words might tumble out of his mouth. “I don’t wanna have this big chick flick moment.” _Okay, true, but maybe not the best way to start._ “But you should know, I have a ton of fucking feelings about what happened...and about you. Specifically, where you’re concerned, I-I have feelings. Like, a lot.” _Chuck, if you’re listening, just strike me down now for the love of god._

“Feelings,” Cas repeated, his tone skeptical. “Can you...share them?”

“It’s complicated, and there’s no time—”

“Just one then,” Cas said desperately. “Just tell me one thing, please Dean...I’m…” He looked at Dean fully then, taking a step closer. His voice was trembling when he said, “You’re driving me crazy.”

Dean couldn’t tell Cas everything, not at that exact moment, but he’d be damned if he couldn’t _show_ him. He closed the distance between them, cupping Cas’ face in his hand. His thumb stroked Cas’ cheek, then his lips...those lips, the ones Dean’s eyes were always drawn to. They were soft and wet under his thumb. With his other hand on the small of Cas’ back, Dean leaned forward, appreciating the smell of him—sunshine and detergent and dust, with a hint of whisky on his breath. Dean’s heart was beating so fast that his entire body seemed to shudder, but he couldn’t stop now. He brushed his lips against Cas’ in a gentle, closed-mouth kiss.

It was so much more than he bargained for.

His senses immediately felt overloaded. Cas’ lips were plump and sweet, the stubble on his cheek a strange sort of friction that Dean found invigorating. The kiss was incredibly chaste, but Cas was gripping Dean’s back tightly, as if the angel was barely holding it together. Dean pulled away, completely dazed, wondering how Cas had the ability to make him feel like a teenager again. Cas parted his lips, probably to say something, but Dean kissed him instead—this time deeply. He zeroed in on Cas’ lower lip and pillowed it between his own, taking time to gently suck, building up more and more pressure just to stop and start again. Cas was responding in earnest, pushing Dean against the bartop in a way that made Dean shiver. He eventually pulled back to breathe, but Cas deciphered the pause as an invitation and placed his mouth on Dean’s exposed neck. Dean closed his eyes, feeling the hot drag of lips on his neck, of _Cas’ lips on my neck, holy fucking shit_ , _how is he so good at this?_ and he stifled a moan, ready to pull Cas’ face back to him fiercely, to flick his tongue tenderly inside his mouth and—

That, of course, is when Dean heard the sound of a throat clearing. “I hate to break-up what is definitely _not_ two FBI agents making out at my bar,” Leo said, “but there’s another agent here looking for you two. He’s waiting just outside.”

  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raise your hand if you're ready for some smut? (My own hand is very, very raised.)
> 
> This is a longer chapter, but it includes the climax of the story (and several other climaxes too, ha ha ha). Okay, I'll stop making dad jokes now and let you enjoy the chapter!

Leo exited the room as Castiel slowly withdrew his lips from Dean’s neck. His arms were still wrapped around the hunter’s back, and he found himself hesitant to pull away. But if Leo was right and Sam was in the lobby waiting for him, then it was time to salt-and-burn Edward Lowry’s grave. The Holy Grail would be filled with patrons soon, and hundreds of people would be in danger...with only Dean left to defend them. Castiel sighed, wishing he and Dean had time to discuss what was evolving between them— _or perhaps we could kiss some more_ , Castiel thought wistfully. _That was highly enjoyable_.

Instead, the angel took a step back, glancing at the doorway.

“I should go,” he said finally, returning his gaze to Dean. As usual, Castiel found his friend’s expression difficult to decipher. Were Dean’s cheeks flushed red with embarrassment—or arousal? Did Dean already regret their kiss, or was he as eager as Castiel to have a second one? The angel searched his face, hoping to better understand Dean’s reaction to their current situation, but the task proved too daunting. Castiel looked down, feeling foolish, wondering how Dean always made him so confused.

“Hey,” Dean whispered. He took a step forward, hands wrapped around the sleeve of Castiel’s trenchcoat. His fingers grazed Castiel’s wrist. “Cas, just...remember what I told you, okay?”

What Dean had told him…

The words returned to Castiel immediately: _I have feelings. Like, a lot._ Vague as the confession was, at least to an angel—humans had hundreds of feelings, often dozens in one day, how could Castiel know _which_ emotion Dean was experiencing?—but his words had been accompanied by an action. A kiss. And that was one social convention Castiel completely understood. He smiled, nodding in understanding.

He walked towards the exit, but then unexpectedly turned, facing Dean again. He felt pained at the realization that they were temporarily splitting up. He would be out of reach for a few hours, at least, and the reality of the danger they would face made Castiel panic. “Dean, please be careful,” he said, frowning.

Dean scoffed, his tone light. “No worries, Cas. I ain’t afraid of no ghost.”

Castiel narrowed his eyes. “Well, that’s highly impractical of you, considering that ghosts can be dangerous and homicidal.”

“Dude, seriously?” Dean asked, rolling his eyes. “Metatron zapped all those pop culture references into your head—but still left out _Ghostbusters_?” He sighed, fingers laced behind his neck. “That son of bitch really did deserve to die...”

***

Sam and Castiel drove to the cemetery in silence. Castiel had never rode in the Impala with just Sam, and as close of friends as they were, Castiel found himself missing Dean’s company. The cemetery was only a few miles away, thankfully, so Castiel leaned against the passenger window, absently watching trees and streets pass by. Things weren’t usually awkward with Sam, but Castiel wasn’t sure how much he knew about what was developing between him and his brother...but the angel knew better than to bring it up. Still, part of him was tempted to ask Sam, if only because Sam seemed to know more about Dean’s feelings than Castiel did. How had that happened, exactly? _Damn Winchesters…_

Sam parked the Impala one block from the cemetery, then popped the trunk. He filled a bag with salt, gasoline, zippos, and flashlights, and slung the heavy duffel over his shoulder. Castiel carried a shovel in each hand, marveling for the millionth time at just _how much_ this trunk could hold. They headed towards the cemetery and discussed the case in quiet voices, both hoping this salt-and-burn would work, that Edward Lowry was their ghost and the haunting would be solved.

It took nearly a half hour of searching, but they eventually located Lowry’s grave. Castiel spotted it first, his eyes sharper in the dark. The marker was a small, in-ground stone, the header overgrown with moss. The engraving was barely detectable, but once Castiel cleared away the debris, the carved inscription read:

EDWARD J. LOWRY

1783 – 1818

MAY GOD HAVE MERCY

“‘May god have mercy,’” Sam read aloud, shaking his head. “Well, that’s ominous…”

“Indeed,” Castiel said grimly. Sam slung the duffel at his feet and Castiel passed him a shovel. They started digging, the next few hours passing without anything of note. Castiel tried working quickly, his hands developing calluses before he healed himself with grace. Pretty soon Sam was panting and sweating, but Castiel never slowed down or showed signs of fatigue. By the third hour they were five feet deep, with only a foot of earth separating them from the coffin.

The realization sent a burst of adrenaline through Castiel, and he threw off his trenchcoat and began to shovel more deeply, his thrusts suddenly aggressive. Sam leaned against his own shovel, eyebrows raised.

“You’re really worried about him, aren’t you?” he asked. There was a hint of playfulness in his voice, but also genuine curiosity. Castiel tensed at the question and continued shoveling.

“Aren’t you?” the angel asked. _Deflection—what a human thing to do_ . _Just another peculiarity I can credit to Dean._

“Always,” Sam said. “I always worry about him.” There was an unexpected vulnerability in his voice that made Castiel finally stop shoveling and look up. Sam was staring at him, eyes soft and wide. “Look, Cas...you already know that me and Dean, we’ve lost a lot of people. Not just our family, but many of our friends. Almost everyone we’ve ever cared about. So you being worried about Dean, wanting to keep him safe and sticking around to help with us this case…” He looked away then. “I’m glad he has you, man.”

“You also have me, Sam,” Castiel answered sincerely, not fully understanding the implication of Sam’s words.

Sam chuckled. “Well, I don’t have you in _that_ way, Cas, but that’s okay. I’ll leave that to my brother.”

He began shoveling again and Castiel followed suit, his mind processing Sam’s words and stifling a grin. He knew it was wrong to feel so pleased, particularly when innocent lives were in danger, but Sam had just validated his and Dean’s growing...connection? Relationship? Bond? Either way, the angel felt relieved to hear it acknowledged. Maybe this whole thing wasn’t his imagination—like some elaborate djinn hallucination. Maybe, as Castiel had told Dean all those years ago, good things do happen.

They didn’t speak again until the salt had been scattered, the gasoline poured, and flames ignited over Edward Lowry’s bones.

“So,” Castiel said softly, staring at the growing flames.

“So,” Sam repeated, tone rising like a question.

“Sam, I just—I would like to know—” Castiel hadn’t realized that he needed Sam’s approval before further pursuing things with Dean, but it was becoming apparent that he did.

“Cas, c’mon.” Sam smiled encouragingly. “How long have we been friends? You can ask me anything.”

“That’s precisely why this is so hard,” Castiel said solemnly. “If you don’t approve, or if things don’t work out between...Dean and I...then I’ve lost my only friends in the world. I’ve lost my family.”

Sam took a long and deliberate step towards Castiel, placing a hand on his shoulder. “That would never happen, not in a million years,” he promised. “Nothing would ever change _our_ friendship, okay? I know we’ve never been as close as you and Dean, but in hindsight, there was obviously a reason for that.” Sam smirked, then continued. “But I do consider you one of my closest friends, Cas.”

Castiel beamed in response. “And I consider you one of mine.”

Sam glanced down and grinned, as if something had just occurred to him. “Huh. Buried underneath everything you said earlier, all that worry and doubt, you were asking for my blessing...weren’t you?”

Castiel glanced down again, feeling sheepish, but Sam only squeezed his shoulder. “Well, you might not have exactly asked for it, man, but…. You’ve definitely got it.”

***

Once the salt-and-burn was finished and the supplies packed away, they drove towards the Holy Grail.

“Dean still isn’t answering,” Castiel said, cellphone to his ear.

“Maybe it’s too loud inside,” Sam suggested, hands gripping the wheel, but Castiel could tell they were both imagining the other possibilities—Dean was hurt, Dean was in danger, Dean was dead…

 _No, not an option. Focus, Castiel_.

“Just hurry,” he said instead, and Sam obliged by running two yellow lights. Castiel called Dean again for sixth time, and texted him for the second, but still—nothing. It had been nearly four hours since they had left the club, and he hadn’t heard from Dean at all during that time. When Sam finally pulled the Impala into the parking lot, Castiel’s unease had turned into full-blown panic. He didn’t wait for the car to park, but flung his door open as soon as Sam’s foot touched the break and ran through the entrance.

The first thing he heard were screams.

They were barely audible over whatever song the DJ had been playing, the song skipping and stuck on a loop, the bass pounding like a hammer in Castiel’s chest. He followed the chaotic noise and took a sharp left, towards the dance floor. The crowd was pushing towards the exit, attempting to flee. He shoved his way through, eyes frantically searching, trying to catch a glimpse of what was happening inside.

“Dean!” he called out, but his voice wouldn’t travel over all the commotion. Once he finally made his way out of the crowd, he saw a guy was lying in the center of the dance floor. His hands were raised, clearly terrified, attempting to protect himself against an evil no one else could see. Dean was standing over him, an iron rod clenched in his fist. He struck the air forcefully, circling the man on the floor.

“Cas!” Dean shouted, pointing to the man, but Castiel didn’t need instruction—he was already running towards the intended victim and pulling him to his feet. He didn’t seem injured yet, which was a relief. But then, the temperature in the room severely dropped. Castiel could feel the man trembling. Dean swung the iron bar wildly, face sweaty and determined. Finally, the air was filled with a gray, dissipating cloud.

“Did you get him?” Castiel asked, though he knew the answer.

Dean nodded. The iron had worked and the ghost was gone...for now. The man Castiel was guarding ran towards the exit, but was thankfully stopped by Sam, who was now standing in the empty doorway. Sam pulled him aside, likely to question the man and pinpoint what...or rather, _who_...had been targeting him.

“Dean,” Castiel said, turning his attention to the hunter, unable to keep the alarm out of his voice. “Are you okay?”

Dean seemed distracted, his eyes sweeping over the floor. Castiel couldn’t tell if he was relieved that they had saved the guy, or frustrated that they weren’t any closer to solving the case. Castiel put a tentative hand on his arm, and Dean finally glanced up.

“Fine, Cas,” he said dismissively. “You salted the bones, right?”

Castiel nodded, and Dean frowned. “Well shit,” he breathed. “So we’re back to square one?”

“Maybe not,” Sam called out. Dean’s expression shifted, eyebrows raised. He walked towards the doorway, pulling Castiel along by his hand.

***

Castiel shifted in his suit, pulling at the cuffs nervously. Warm rays of sunlight were streaking the Impala’s backseat, and if he could sweat, Castiel certainly would be. Since meeting Dean and occasionally joining the brothers on hunts, Castiel had accomplished some good in the world, that much was true. But he still disliked having to wear costumes...disliked the deceitful implication was that he was a federal agent, or a priest, or whatever the character-of-the-week was. He sighed, hands gripping his forehead. He had been trying for years, attempting to make himself fit in Dean’s life, but he was no hunter.

“Hey,” Dean said, looking at Castiel through the rearview mirror. “Don’t think so hard, Cas. You’re gonna give us all a headache.”

“Apologies,” Castiel said dryly. They stared at each other in the rearview mirror, Dean’s eyebrows arched and questioning. Sam shifted in the passenger seat, clearly uncomfortable. Castiel knew he was acting distant towards Dean today, and he wasn’t sure why.

After they left the Holy Grail last night, he had killed time in the motel while the brothers slept. Usually he tried to keep busy by reading or researching, but he was strangely on-edge, opting instead to watch Dean sleep. The longer he stared, the more he realized the depth of his feelings for this man, this human, who was resilient and strong...often impossibly so. But when he slept—so soundly, so deep—Castiel remembered that he really was human.

Castiel had never been scared of Death. It was an inevitability, a necessary balance that the universe required. As an angel Castiel understood that. But now Castiel was falling in love with a human...or actually, maybe he had already fallen...and the imminent threat of mortality loomed ahead. How many years could Dean realistically have left? Forty? Fifty? Sixty? Hunters often died early, living just a handful of decades, and Dean was no exception. How long would it be before Death took him permanently?

“What do you think, Cas?” Sam asked, twisted around in the front seat, head angled towards him.

“I…” Castiel flushed, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Sorry, Sam. I wasn’t listening.”

He felt Dean looking at him again, but he resisted the urge to meet his gaze. Sam smiled at him, face full of compassion.

“I was bouncing ideas around about the ghost. From what Andrew Neal told me last night, the spirit was wearing black robes, a heavy cloak, and carrying stones in his hands. The research I did this morning, implied that his dress made him a bishop...but if these murders are still connected to Edward Lowry’s murder, then the church was Protestant already, not Catholic.”

“So why the bishop get-up?” Dean supplied, following Sam’s train of thought.

Castiel tilted his head, thinking. “In 1818, the Protestant Revolution was still new in Virginia, still ongoing. It’s possible that this spirit is a Protestant preacher or pastor, the one who instructed his congregation to stone Lowry. His motivation to kill other sodomites would be quite obvious.” Castiel glanced down, hoping Dean wasn’t internalizing this unpleasant information too much. “Protestant leaders would likely still be in traditional dress, but wouldn’t actually be bishops.”

Dean frowned. “How annoyingly complicated.”

“Not really,” Sam said. “I agree with Cas’ theory. If the spirit isn’t a bishop, just the preacher in bishop dress, then we just need to track down his remains...what’s the preacher’s name again…” Sam flipped absently through his notebook. “‘Nathaniel Newton,’” he read.

Dean snorted. “Good ol’ Nate Newt. Bet he was bullied in the schoolyard.”

Sam shook his head in response, and Castiel sat silently, not acknowledging Dean’s comment. Dean kept checking the rearview mirror, attempting to catch his eye, but Castiel was doggedly avoiding him.

“Change of plans,” Dean said suddenly. “Sam, we’ll drop you off at the cemetery. Go scope out the preacher’s grave for tonight’s salt-and-burn. Cas and I will interview the Lowrys in the meantime.”

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows, not wanting to be alone with Dean while he worked through this _I’m-in-love-with-someone-who-will-one-day-die_ panic. “What if Nathaniel isn’t buried there?” he pointed out. “If I remember correctly, there are several local cemeteries in town.”

“Then Sam can consider this a scavenger hunt,” Dean said gruffly.

Sam threw his hands up between them. “ _Sam_ can decide how to handle this, actually. Just drop me off at the diner. I’ve got my laptop, so I can research where Nathaniel was buried and go from there.”

Dean nodded rigidly, seeming to approve of Sam’s plan. They drove a handful of blocks before pulling up to the diner. Sam waved a quick goodbye but kept the passenger door open.

“Don’t you wanna sit up here, Cas?” he asked.

Castiel narrowed his eyes, but then Dean mumbled, “Yeah, Cas, I’m no taxidriver,” so the angel had no choice but to exit the backseat and re-enter on the passenger side. Sam waited, closing the door cheerily once Castiel was tucked inside. Dean and Castiel drove towards the Lowrys’ in silence, the air around them heavy, Castiel still strangely melancholy. A block from the house, Dean parked the Impala on the street under a large redbud tree, its branches thick with foliage. He cut the engine then turned to Castiel, searching his face, but the angel still wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Cas, you gotta toss me a bone here, man,” he said. “After yesterday—after we…you know.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought we were on the same page, but maybe I was wrong.”

Castiel’s panic was stifled, momentarily at least, by the desperation he heard in Dean’s voice. He lifted his gaze finally, and Dean’s eyes were wide and prodding, full of confusion and anger and fear.

“We were on the same page. We _are_ ,” he said. “That kiss was…” He stopped then, thinking of the memory. Dean’s lips had been wet and warm and...incredible. His touch was all-consuming. Castiel had kissed others, albeit a small amount, but no kiss had ever felt like that before. “Does it always feel like that?”

“Like what?” Dean’s tone was still cautious, but his expression was softening.

Castiel leaned in, wondering how to put the impulse into words. “Like...I couldn’t get enough. Like...I wanted more and more of you,” he said honestly.

Dean inhaled tightly and didn’t answer straightaway. Then slowly, he placed a tentative hand on the back of Castiel’s neck and pulled him forward. “Cas, if you felt that way,” he whispered, eyes roaming down to Castiel’s lips, “then why have you been pushing me away all morning?”

Castiel glanced down, as if just noticing their proximity. Their noses were practically touching, their knees bumping gently. Castiel leaned into Dean’s touch, his own hands hovering near Dean’s waist.

“It’s nothing…”

“Cas—”

“It’s illogical,” Castiel said firmly, and really, it was. He had always known that Dean was human, that Dean would die. Their first meeting was literally in Dean’s afterlife. So why had the thought of Dean’s mortality horrified him last night?

Dean chuckled quietly and Castiel leaned his head to the side, not understanding the joke. “What’s funny?”

“It’s just that... _these_ things usually are. Illogical, I mean,” Dean explained. “Not much logic in love,” he added jokingly. His eyes gradually widened at his words. “Not—not that—I only meant—” He attempted to pull away, but Castiel only clung more firmly.

“There may not be logic in love, Dean...but there _is_ fear,” Castiel said, lips hovering dangerously close to Dean’s.

Dean was visibly holding his breath. “Do you mean...what I think you mean?”

Castiel nodded, maintaining eye contact. “That’s why I’ve been distant all morning, and I’m...I’m sorry. It seems I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of this?” Dean asked, sweeping a finger between them. “Of ruining our friendship?”

“I’ve considered that, but no,” Castiel said carefully. He pulled back slightly, hoping to commit this image to memory: warm rays lighting Dean’s silhouette, the gold in his eyes like a sunburst against green. His skin was flushed from heat but still inviting, begging to be touched. Castiel wanted to smooth his hands against every uncovered inch. Then there were his lips, perhaps the most enticing. Full and pink and...Castiel couldn’t help himself. He dragged his thumb across Dean’s lower lip, savoring the dampness, the sensuality of it all. Dean’s breathing became labored, his heartbeat palpable against Castiel’s chest.

“I’m only afraid of one thing, Dean,” Castiel whispered. “And that’s being without you.”

Dean suddenly closed the space between them, lunging forward and wrapping his hands around Castiel’s neck. He swung his leg over Castiel and kissed him firmly, insistently, crushing their lips together in a surge of adrenaline. Castiel was flustered, head spinning, as he realized how chaste their previous kiss had been by comparison. Moments later, Dean flicked the tip of his tongue into Castiel’s mouth, withdrawing coyly before Castiel could react. _Maybe he’s worried about going too far too fast,_ Castiel thought. _Or, perhaps he’s teasing me…_ Either way, Castiel was already enraptured. The second time Dean’s tongue wandered softly into Castiel’s mouth, he deepened the kiss instinctively, capturing Dean’s tongue and mercilessly sucking it. Dean moaned, the sound echoing inside Castiel’s mouth, encouraging him to continue. He finally released Dean’s tongue and started nipping at his lower lip, licking and teasing, his own tongue entering Dean’s mouth. He only realized that Dean was sitting in his lap, straddling him, when he felt something press against his groin. He broke away and glanced down, noticing his growing erection, and again, there was something prodding against him…

 _Oh_ , he thought dumbly, seeing the tent in Dean’s jeans. And then, with full understanding: _Ohhhhh._

Without knowing quite what to do, Castiel reached his hand forward, cupping Dean from the outside of his folded zipper. Dean shuddered, breathing heavily, and rested his forehead against Castiel’s. “God, Cas,” he whispered, hips bucking forward, pushing himself further into Castiel’s hand.

“Dean,” Castiel mumbled, his voice low and sonorous. “Dean, I…” Castiel’s mind was racing, struggling to produce words. The reality of their current situation—Dean straddling him in the Impala, rutting his erection into Castiel’s open palm—was enough to make the angel feel frantic with desire. And then Dean would occasionally pant or groan, or even whisper Castiel’s name, and Castiel would close his eyes, completely overcome. The realization that he could arouse Dean—who had engaged in so much satisfying sex throughout his life that the thought intimidated Castiel—surprised and flattered him.

And also made him incredibly nervous. What if he was bad at this?

“Dean, I-I don’t…” Castiel halted again, feeling embarrassed. His encounters with male anatomy were severely lacking, though not from lack of interest...especially when it came to Dean. He knew what _he_ liked, and what his vessel responded to, but would Dean find his approach appealing?

Dean lowered himself cautiously into Castiel’s lap, tilting the angel’s head up and looking into his eyes. The hand Castiel had been using to roam Dean’s zipper was carefully pulled away, entwined now with Dean’s fingers. Dean leaned forward and kissed him gently...a purposeful action, Castiel knew, considering how heated their interaction had recently become. Just the quick brush of Dean’s lips began to ease his nerves.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean asked quietly.

“I’m fine,” he answered instinctively, then added, voice sounding breathless, “I’m better than fine, actually.”

Dean gave him a small smile. “Good. I’m sorry, we got carried away. I just—Jesus, you’re amazing.” He carded his hands through Castiel’s hair, and Castiel leaned into the touch. “I’m so into you, Cas. More than...honestly, I probably should be. But I don’t want to pressure you, or move too fast—”

Castiel was shaking his head before Dean had even finished speaking. “No, not at all. I want you, Dean. I want all of you,” he rumbled. “I just—” He bit his lip and glanced up, making eye contact again. “Just show me what you like.”

“I like this,” Dean answered slowly, leaving a small trail of kisses on Castiel’s jaw. He was still running his fingers through Castiel’s hair. Castiel leaned back, feeling immensely more relaxed. This was _Dean_ , after all. Dean had always taught Castiel about humanity, about culture and behavior and societal norms. Castiel had complete faith in him...which, he guessed, would only make their growing intimacy even more powerful.

Castiel ran his hands along Dean’s thighs, noting the hard, carved muscles on top. He gradually explored the inside of Dean’s thighs, which were fleshier but still firm, rubbing circles against the denim with his fingers. Castiel wondered if this sensation would feel better without clothing on. His hands wandered to Dean’s waistband, then unclasped the button and dragged the zipper down. He felt Dean freeze, suddenly not breathing, as Castiel palmed Dean through the thin material of his boxers. Their erections had flagged slightly during their break for conversation, but Castiel was already hard again just from touching Dean.

Dean exhaled sharply and shuttered. “Cas...you-you still want me to show you what I like?”

Castiel nodded eagerly. Dean scooted further back into Castiel’s lap, nearly on his knees. “Do what I do,” he instructed, pushing his boxers down and taking his erection in-hand. He shuddered at the contact, closing his eyes, and Castiel hurried to follow Dean’s example. Once his erection was free, he stroked himself slowly and looked at Dean...who was staring, open-mouthed, pupils dilated.

“You’re so fucking hot,” Dean said gasping, stroking himself more quickly. He reached a hand towards the dashboard, opening the glove compartment and pulling out tissues and lotion.

“Likewise,” Castiel answered, because if he said anything else, he worried a string of obscenities might fall from his mouth. He alternated between watching Dean’s technique, to watching Dean watch him, to staring in amazement at his own erection—which was now curled in towards his belly, the head dripping and pink. Even in his limited experience, it had never felt _this_ good. The motion of Dean writhing on top of him, rocking his hips and setting a desperate rhythm, was enough to overwhelm Castiel. He leaned his head back against the seat, his legs feeling shaky and weak.

“Can I touch you?” Dean asked, voice cracking. He was still staring at Castiel, gliding over his erection with a slick hand.

“Yes, Dean. _Please._ ” He gasped as Dean’s hand collided with his own, lathering Castiel’s cock with a thin layer of lotion. Castiel dropped his hands and dug into Dean’s thighs roughly, overcome with sensation. Dean hummed in approval and pulled himself further into Castiel’s lap. Their cocks brushed against each other, wet and hard and unforgiving, the feeling so astonishing that it nearly hurt. “Dean,” he panted, hands wandering up towards Dean’s neck. He pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss, but the longer Dean’s hands worked his cock, the harder it was to focus on _anything_ else. “Dean,” Castiel said desperately, moaning into Dean’s mouth. He felt a buildup of nerves and momentum growing in his belly. “Dean, I think I might—”

“It’s okay, Cas, I got you,” Dean said roughly, gaping shamelessly as the angel thrashed wildly beneath him. Castiel leaned his head against the seat and arched his back, eyes firmly shut as he felt himself finally release into Dean’s hand. “Dean...oh...Dean…” He knew was rambling incoherently but he couldn’t make himself stop. Dean’s hand was still pumping him, more gently now, until he was wiping Castiel’s come off with a tissue. Castiel cracked opened his eyes, noticing that Dean was still holding his own erection in-hand.

“Don’t worry about me,” Castiel mumbled, shooing Dean’s tissue away. “I just want to watch you.”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Won’t be much of a show. I’m already so close, Cas.”

“Oh?” Castiel bite his lips suggestively. “Is that because we’re doing this in broad daylight...parked on the street...where anyone could see?” He suspected that Dean found the idea of public sexual encounters quite thrilling. Judging by the moan Dean emitted, he was right.

“Jesus, Cas...you are ridiculously hot,” he mumbled, a comment seemingly more to himself than to Castiel.

“Dean...I like you like this,” Castiel whispered, hands roaming Dean’s thighs, his voice an inexplicable rumble.

“You mean...in your lap?” Dean was breathless, squeezing his cock firmly at the head before resuming his short, quick strokes. Castiel watched, mesmerized. “Look at you, only two days into our—um, whatever this is—” His breathing was so labored now, Castiel had a hard time deciphering his words. “—and you’re already a top.”

Castiel instinctively wrapped his hand around Dean’s length, stroking him at the same merciless speed Dean had been setting. Dean shut his eyes at Castiel’s touch. Suddenly he came, almost violently, practically convulsing on Castiel’s lap. Panting, he leaned his forehead against Castiel’s. Castiel drew soothing circles into his back, kissing softly at his neck.

After several minutes of blissful stillness, Castiel was the first one to speak. “I don’t know what that means, by the way.”

Dean pulled his head off Castiel’s shoulder, looking confused.

“What you said earlier,” Castiel explained. “I don’t know how you meant it, but technically, you’re on top of me right now. Wouldn’t that make you a ‘top’?”

Dean laughed before Castiel had even finished speaking. “Cas…nah, nevermind.” He shook his head and grinned. “I’ll explain later,” he said, pulling him in for another kiss.

***

Ten minutes later, wearing sheepish expressions and freshly-wrinkled suits, Dean and Castiel knocked on the Lowrys’ door. They knew it was a long-shot, questioning Edward’s relatives for leads two hundred years after his death, but they had no other options. If the ghost really was Nathaniel Newton—the preacher who had ordered the stoning of Edward Lowry—then the haunting and the murders seemed connected to both of them somehow. They just needed to find the link…

Finally a middle-aged man answered the door, wearing crisp khakis and a pastel-colored button-up. Castiel could hear commotion coming in through the open door—the sound of multiple footsteps rushing inside the house. He guessed there was an entire family inside, and judging by the worn playhouse in the backyard, that was a solid guess.

“Can I help you?” the man asked guardedly.

“We sure hope so,” Dean said, flashing him an earnest smile. “We’re reporters with _The Winchester Star_.” Castiel tried not to laugh. He knew it was an actual newspaper in Virginia, which is why Dean had settled on it for their alias, but it was almost too tongue-in-cheek—even for Dean. “We’re doing a piece on local, historical families. We’d love to ask you a few questions about one of your ancestors, Edward Lowry.”

The man crossed his arms, seeming surprised. “On a Sunday morning?” he questioned. “We’re about to leave for church...”

Castiel had suspected as much. Religion seemed to run in families, and before Edward’s stoning, he had been an intensely religious man.

Dean smiled widely, still hoping to charm the man standing in the doorway. “We’re on a super-tight deadline,” he said, eyes pleading. “We just need a moment of your time.”

The man seemed to consider them, then checked his watch, sighing. “We’ve got about twenty minutes,” he admitted, finally opening the door. “Come in.”

***

Unfortunately, the present-day Mr. Lowry seemed to know little about his great-great grandfather’s violent death. Or rather...whatever he did know, he wasn’t willing to share.

“It was a different time,” he said uncomfortably, crossing his arms at the kitchen table. His wife had joined them, putting mugs of coffee in front of Cas and Dean (which Dean gratefully accepted).

“Still,” Dean countered, after taking a long sip of coffee, “it’s pretty terrible, don’t you think? Even if the rumors _were_ true.” Mr. Lowry narrowed his eyes at Dean, and Castiel realized they were all dancing around the reality of Edward’s death. For a zealous Christian family, a legacy of homosexuality and violence wasn’t a favorable one.

“Rumors often cover up a much more salacious truth,” Mr. Lowry mumbled, speaking to no one in particular. Dean seemed dumbfounded by the man’s statement, unsure how to respond. He looked at Castiel for back-up.

“What is the ‘salacious truth’ in this case, Mr. Lowry?” Castiel asked straightforwardly. Dean stared at the angel, eyebrows raised, equally startled and impressed by his approach.

“N-nothing,” the man said quietly, leaning back in his chair, his guarded confidence suddenly turning meek. His wife sitting beside him, silent up until this point, squeezed her husband’s hand.

“We still have ten minutes before we leave for Sunday School...why don’t you go upstairs and find your grandmother’s photo album?” she suggested. She turned to Castiel and Dean, her face open and friendly. “I’m sure these reporters would love to see some photos of Edward.”

“Oh, please do,” Dean said cheerily. “Our editor would just flip.”

Mr. Lowry nodded, gathering Dean’s empty coffee mug and dropping it off in the sink. Above the sound of children running around in the house, they heard footsteps as Mr. Lowry reached the staircase. Dean reached for Castiel’s untouched coffee cup, eyes raised and hopeful, and Castiel nodded. Watching Dean position his lips around the porcelain and sigh deeply after his first sip...well, it made Castiel shift awkwardly in his chair, trying not to remember the compromising position they had been in only a half-hour ago.

“Mrs. Lowry,” Dean said finally, voice dripping with charm, “if you have any additional info to share—”

“Jonathan doesn’t like to talk about it,” she interrupted, waving a vague hand towards her husband upstairs, seemingly ready for Dean’s question. She scooted her chair forwarded, voice hushed. “But there are reasons his great-great grandfather’s death was especially...scandalous.”

“We’re listening,” Castiel said, eyes locked on the woman.

“This is off-the-record, right?” she asked, though the way her eyes were bright with excitement, Castiel figured she would’ve told them the story regardless.

“You have our word as journalists,” Dean said, and Castiel tried not to smirk at the comment.

“Obviously you two know how Edward died,” she said, watching for signs of recognition on their faces. “How horrible...to have your family’s legacy marked by that. But what made it even more horrible was _who_ Edward was accused of sodomy with.” She leaned forward again, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. “The condemner, as if were, was equally sinful.”

“Are you saying…” Dean shook his head, disbelieving.

“Yes,” Mrs. Lowry spilled excitedly. “Locals believe that Edward’s lover was none other than Nathaniel Newton...the preacher who ordered his death.”

***

Breaking into the Holy Grail that night took little effort. Apparently Sam had noticed a rickety door in the back shortly after joining them at the crime scene the day before. Castiel reached tentatively to turn an overhead light on, knowing the hunters couldn’t see well in the dark, but Dean grabbed his hand. “Let’s not draw attention,” he said quietly, unzipping the duffel on his shoulder and passing them all flashlights instead. The dance floor was still covered in yellow crime-scene tape, but otherwise it seemed untouched.

“I still think we should wait,” Sam whispered, “and come back when it reopens.”

“After all these attacks, that could be weeks,” Dean reasoned. “We’ve already done the salt-and-burn, Sammy. Stopping by here again is just a precaution.”

“I don’t like it either,” Castiel said, stepping over the crime-tape to inspect the stoning spots. He ran a cautious hand over the floor. “This ghost is incredibly violent.”

“Agreed. Newt is a total dickbag, but dude—” Dean playfully swirled his flashlight beam into Castiel’s eyes. “You’re supposed to be on _my_ side now.”

“Why?” Castiel deadpanned, still bent over the concrete floor. “Because we confessed our romantic inclinations and shared simultaneous orgasms?”

“Dude!” Dean yelled, while Sam braced his hands on his knees, snickering hysterically. “You can’t say that shit in front of Sam!”

Castiel stood stiffly, walking towards the bar that the brothers were inspecting. “I thought Sam already knew,” he said simply.

“ _In theory_ ,” Dean said, his tone hard. “But some things—like orgasms—are private, you know.”

“My mistake,” Castiel said flatly. Unsure of what else to say, he mumbled, “I didn’t realize our non-platonic activities were a secret.” He turned slowly and walked into the next room, mind buzzing, worrying that Dean had already changed his mind. If the hunter was ashamed of Castiel in front of his brother, how would he act in public? Would they be allowed the intimacy they had shared for years, long gazes and shoulders touches, and perhaps more—could they hold hands, exchange kisses? Or would Castiel be a secret now, only enjoying true intimacy with Dean in moments of seclusion—in Baby or the bunker, tucked away and out of sight…

Castiel was aware that Sam and Dean had been speaking in low, heated whispers, but he ignored them. He knew they were likely talking about him, and eavesdropping on the exchange might just upset him further.

“Cas,” Sam called, raising his voice loudly. “Keep your eyes open. The EMF is going off like crazy in here.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel answered, sweeping his flashlight around the room, “but things seem fine in here—”

He felt a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder, like something small and solid had been thrown against his back. He cried out in surprise but turned around quickly, arms ready for an attack...and came face-to-face with Nathaniel Newton.

At least, that was Castiel’s best guess. But judging by his pale and angry face, flowing robes, and hand full of stones, his assumption was correct.

“Dean,” Castiel found himself saying instinctively, unable to tear his eyes away from the ghost. “Dean, he’s in here—”

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed, his face a hideous snarl. “How dare you leave me,” he screamed, itching closer to Castiel. “I gave you everything, Edward. I rebelled against the church, against Heaven, _for you_. And now you’re done with me?”

Castiel’s stomach dropped, trying not to notice the parallels between him and Nathaniel...but the evidence was there. _I rebelled, and I did it—all if it—for you._ Hadn’t he told Dean that nearly a decade ago, furious and self-righteous, meaning every word?

Nathaniel closed his fist and launched another stone in his direction. Castiel tried to dodge it, ducking towards a nearby corner, but the object seemed to follow him paranormally. The second hit was harder, hitting his stomach, pushing him against the wall. He looked frantically for a piece of iron, but remembered they were all in Dean’s duffel. Why had he allowed himself to get separated from Sam and Dean without a proper weapon?

“So...that’s it,” Castiel said, staring at Nathaniel unflinchingly. It was unlikely to work, but perhaps if he could get the spirit to engage with him, he might postpone the assault. “You attack...who, exactly? Homosexuals who have doubts?”

Sam and Dean appeared in the doorway. Castiel allowed himself to look away long enough to search Dean’s face, the hunter’s eyes wide and panicked. “Cas,” he shouted, tossing him an iron bar. Castiel caught it with one hand and gripped it tightly.

“I punish disloyal sodomites,” Nathaniel thundered, coming closer.

“I’m not disloyal to Dean,” Castiel said defensively, the crowbar still raised in his hands. “I-I’m only worried that he’s ashamed of me, and maybe we shouldn’t be together if it causes him grief—”

“Cas,” Dean said frantically, “ignore the stupid bastard and just _get him_ , please! I would if I could see him!”

Nathaniel raised his hand, positioning another stone, but Castiel swiped the iron against him. His form dissolved into gray, ethereal wisps.

Suddenly Dean’s hands were cupping Castiel’s face, eyes scanning his body for injury. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Did he _stone_ you?” His voice was hot with anger.

“Just twice,” Castiel answered mildly. Dean huffed in disapproval, turning and looking for the ghost, his expression murderous.

“That son of bitch,” he grumbled. “Newt, come back here! Or better yet, show yourself to me. I’d love to beat that psychotic ass of yours—”

Castiel pulled Dean around by his shoulders. “Dean, stop and listen to me. I know why he targets the victims he does.” He turned to Sam, who was listening intently, his face creased in anxiety. “Nathaniel rejected his religion for Edward, right? By engaging in a sexual relationship with him? Well, eventually Edward rejected him.”

“He wanted to break-up?” Sam asked, and Castiel nodded.

“I think so. But Nathaniel was already damned, in his mind at least. Edward had ruined his chance at salvation and then he wanted to leave him. That’s why Nathaniel stoned him. That’s why he targets people doubting their homosexual relationship—they represent Edward all over again.”

“Doubting their…” Dean seemed to let the information sink in, his expression wary. “You’ve been doubting us? Already?”

Castiel’s mind was whirring, the adrenaline still rushing, attempting to connect the dots of the case. But hearing Dean’s voice so small, he found the man’s hand and squeezed. “No, Dean, not at all,” he said firmly. He bit his lip, looking down. “I worried _you_ were, and I didn’t want our relationship to be a secret…”

“That asshat didn’t come for me, Cas,” Dean said fiercely. “Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Guys,” Sam said weakly. “This is great and all, but shouldn’t we be finding whatever object has Nathaniel still tethered, since we already burned his bones?”

“One second, Sam,” Dean said dismissively, turning back to Castiel. “Cas, I’m sorry I made that comment about keeping quiet in front of Sam. That was a knee-jerk reaction, that’s all. The truth is, I’m _in_ this. I am totally lost on you, dude. I’ll tell anyone. This might involve a different set of...um, tools...than my previous relationships. But it’s about you and me. I don’t want it to be a secret.”

“Guys, seriously—”

“One second, Sam,” Castiel said, parroting Dean, a grin forming on his face. “I need to kiss my...what, exactly?” He licked his lips, eyes locked on Dean. “Lover? Boyfriend? Partner?”

“All of the above,” Dean said, voice full of relief, pulling the angel in by the collar of his trenchcoat. Dean’s lips were solid and strong, strangely unhurried despite their present circumstances. Castiel’s hands found Dean’s jawline, holding him steady and sighing softly, deepening the kiss. Somewhere, in the conscious part of Castiel’s brain, he had a jolt of self-awareness. Dean was kissing him _in front of Sam._ He had been telling the truth. He wasn’t ashamed of Castiel and he wasn’t panicked about how their friendship had changed. Castiel pulled away with a smile.

Until he felt a forceful gust of energy pulling him from Dean and knocking him to the ground. There was an oppressive grip holding his limbs down, pinning him against the floor, preventing him from moving. Above him, he heard commotion—Dean was shouting his name, Sam was swinging his crowbar. But Nathaniel was suddenly everywhere and nowhere, blinking in and out across the room, throwing stone after stone at Castiel.

The angel tried to shield himself from the attack, but he couldn’t raise his arms. The ambush picked up speed, dozens of stones hitting him at once, brutal and unyielding. He couldn’t stop himself from crying out, the pain vibrating inside his bones, making his head spin. If he had been human he might’ve died already.

“We’ve gotta find the object _now_!” Dean was shouting, circling the room in panic. “Sam—”

“There are dozens of artifacts on the walls and some of them look real,” Sam said. “Pull them all down, maybe one of them…”

Castiel forced his eyes open, searching the walls, hoping to help. He thought back to the first night he had entered this lobby. Another man had offered to buy him a drink and Dean had reacted...badly. But before all that, when he was standing there alone, he had been examining the religious decor on the wall. There had been an early nineteenth century cross, faded in gold, and he had felt drawn to it...

“The cross,” he shouted, wincing as another stone hit his stomach, “try the cross—”

Sam followed Castiel’s eyes, running towards the front door and pulling the ornate cross off its hook. Nathaniel re-appeared in front of Castiel, more desperate and pleading than before. “Edward, don’t do this! Don’t leave me!”

Dean pulled his duffel opened and drenched the cross in holy water. Sam flicked his lighter open, looking at Dean, then paused. “Burning a cross, um...you think we’ll go to hell—again?”

“I don’t give a fuck.” Dean snatched the zippo from Sam’s hand impatiently. “This is Cas.” He let the flame drop, igniting the cross below, flames rising fast as a bonfire. Castiel watched Nathaniel’s form suddenly inflame, his robes and skin turning to ash, the ghost still chanting Edward’s name desperate as a prayer.

Castiel sat up slowly, feeling tender and sore. He closed his eyes, concentrating, healing himself with grace. He was aware that Dean was touching him, rubbing his shoulder and kissing his forehead. When the healing was complete and he was fully restored, Castiel kept his eyes closed, leaning further into Dean’s touch, wrapping his arms around the hunter’s waist and trying to commit the man’s touch to memory.

For as long as Castiel could remember, he had been carrying around a millennia of significant moments—divine encounters and battles, terrible losses and terrible triumphs. And even though the ghost of Nathaniel Newton had just been a milk run, a seemingly insignificant digression in the story of their lives, Castiel knew no victory had ever been sweeter.

 


	5. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This epilogue is just pure fun and smut, but it was so entertaining to write. Enjoy, friends!

_One year later_

Dean entered the dance floor. He ran a hand through his hair nervously, his eyes adjusting to the dark. The inside seemed the same—the caged-in DJ booth, the high-rise platforms, the corner bar. He spotted the same bartender, Leo, mixing a cocktail, a dishcloth tossed carelessly over his shoulder. _Well, might as well drink to ease the nerves, right?_ He walked towards Leo and slid onto a stool, waiting to catch his eye. When Leo spotted him, he shook his head in disbelief.  

“Agent Davis?” he asked, looking Dean over—tight jeans, _tighter_ shirt, and dress-boots. He whistled loudly and Dean blushed. “Left the monkey suit at home, I see.” He pulled a shot glass from his rack and filled it neatly with whisky, sliding it forward. Dean accepted graciously, surprised the bartender remembered.

“What brings you back to our little gay corner of Virginia?” Leo quipped, putting on a thick southern drawl. “I’m afraid things have been awfully quiet around here since you and your partner left.”

“Glad to hear it,” Dean said, tipping the shot glass backwards and savoring the burn. He sighed, spreadings his hands out on the counter. Good god, he loved whisky. He felt better already. “I’m meeting someone.”

“Your agent friend, with the gorgeous eyes?” Leo guessed. “What was his name? Townshend?”

“Not exactly,” Dean said coyly. He didn’t want to confuse Leo, but he also didn’t want to fall out of character before the game had even begun.

Leo shook his head, wiping the counter absently. “That’s a shame. The man had it bad for you, plain as night and day.”

Dean leaned forward, his interest piqued. “Is that so?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” Leo shot back. “And the way you looked at him, good god…”

Dean nodded, no longer paying much attention to Leo or his judgments. A tall, dark-haired man was in line behind the bouncer. He was wearing light gray jeans, so form-fitting Dean could spot the outline of his dick from ten yards away. He swallowed dryly, knowing he would need another drink, _immediately_. The man’s tank top was sculpted to his chest, his jawline sporting dark stubble. He was avoiding Dean’s gaze pointedly, and the hunter’s heart began to race.

Last week they had discussed this scenario in detail, one lazy morning in bed, sharing what they would find most alluring about meeting again as strangers. But now it was happening and Dean was panicked, tempted to run to him, to call the whole thing off. Instead of seeing Cas, his adorable and nerdy angel boyfriend of one year, this was Castiel. Cold, distant and sexy. Insanely attractive, even untouchable. Dean watched him saunter towards the bar, determinedly taking a seat several stools away.

Dean cleared his throat, willing himself to breathe. _Okay, showtime_. “I’ll have another whisky,” he told Leo, then titled his head towards Castiel, “and whatever he’s having.”

Leo glanced up from the cash register, recognition flashing across his face. “Agent Townshend,” he said. “But wait…” He looked between the pair of them and snorted. “Really? Role-playing? Never a dull moment with you two, I swear to god.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Castiel said evenly, and fuck, his voice was low and raspy and Dean hoped to hear that voice broken and moaning by the end of the night. “I’ll accept that drink, though.”

Leo rolled his eyes and poured them both shots, mumbling, “This is basically the start of a bad punchline. ‘Two gay FBI agents walk into a bar…’”

“Not gay,” Dean corrected, “bisexual.” He stood up smoothly and took the stool next to Castiel, carrying their shots in-hand. Leo smirked and walked to the other end of the bar, tending to other customers and giving them privacy.

“Do you always go around, proclaiming your sexual orientation to the room?” Castiel asked, sounding bored, and damn, he was _really_ good at playing hard-to-get.

Dean chuckled, his left elbow perched against the counter, his knees angled towards Castiel. With his right hand, he moved a whisky shot in front of the angel, who reached for it instinctively. Their fingers brushed, and Castiel’s icy resolve seemed abruptly shaken, mesmerized by the contact. Dean leaned in closer, lips almost touching Castiel’s earlobe, a spot Dean knew he loved to be kissed and nipped. Dean breathed out slowly, tantalizing and teasing, counting to ten before he finally spoke.

“Only when I have the opportunity to get fucked by handsome stranger,” he whispered, and Castiel shuddered. Dean looked down at his boyfriend’s practically painted-on-jeans, zeroing in on his straining erection. _Bingo._

“Let’s dance,” Castiel replied, his tone demanding.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “We haven’t even taken our shots yet,” he said innocently. Maintaining eye contact, he raised his glass and clinked it against Castiel’s. Dean took his shot immediately, appreciating the burn, but the angel drank his down slowly...as if trying to regain his composure. Dean stared, admiring the column of Castiel’s throat, the way his long and elegant fingers wrapped around the glass. But he was most transfixed by the way the angel drank whisky—cooly, eagerly, but with such control. It reminded Dean of every time Cas had sucked him off, draining his cock till every last drop of come was swallowed down…. _Dammit, Winchester_. His jeans were now very, very tight.

Dean was startled from his thoughts by the slam of a shot glass. “I’m going to dance,” Castiel announced, eyes bright and playful. “Maybe I’ll see you out there?”

“Maybe,” Dean said, attempting nonchalance, but recognizing the familiar hints of desire present in his voice. Castiel stood up and walked away without a second glance, Dean’s eyes following, appraising him from behind. He had intended to make Castiel wait longer, to get his boyfriend turned on by anticipation alone, but he couldn’t stop himself. He paid his tab—accepting Leo’s good-natured jabs at their “disgustingly adorable” expense—and went to search for Cas.

As expected, men had flocked around him, pulling the angel close and dancing against him. This was another thing they had discussed last week in bed—during their game, could they dance with other people? Should they? “I don’t really want to,” Dean had admitted, his head on Castiel’s chest, “I’ve had plenty of others, and you’re it for me. But...watching you? Yeah, that’s fucking hot.”

Castiel had been timid about the idea, just like he had originally responded to role-playing, not quite committing to the concept either way. Dean wasn’t sure what to expect, but once he finally found Castiel on the second highest platform, head tilted and eyes closed, surrounded by strangers clearly attempting to bring his boyfriend home...well. Dean’s blood started pumping steadily down south.

He cut his way through the crowd, perhaps more forcibly than he should—they were civilians, after all—but his hands were eager to touch Cas, to feel him, to grind against him…

And then they were face-to-face, Cas’ eyes penetrating and dark, shamelessly lustful. Dean wrapped his hands around his neck, eager to kiss him, but Castiel pulled back.

“I hardly know you,” he argued. Dean chuckled, despite how insanely turned on he was. But if Castiel was keeping character, then so was he.

“How about we get to know each other better, then?” he countered, putting his leg between Castiel’s thighs and wrapping his hands around the angel’s waist. He could feel Castiel’s dick hardening against his hip, and Dean couldn’t prevent himself from moaning softly at the contact. They moved together like that for several minutes, slow and sensual and _so damn good,_ until the song changed and the tempo picked up. Then they were both moving fast, too fast, until Dean was way too debauched to even make a joke about how much he hated techno. They grinded against each other, breathless and desperate, hands clutching waists and thighs while lips searched each other’s necks. Just when Dean thought he might _actually_ burst and come in pants right this goddamn second, Castiel grabbed him and pushed him against a nearby pillar, kissing him wildly, all tongue and teeth and moans. He licked and sucked his way up Dean’s neck, one hand gripping his hair, the other palming the front of his jeans.

“Fuck,” Dean groaned. “Jesus, Cas, I wish you had your wings. I don’t know how I’m gonna make it to the motel.”

“Who said you had to make it that far?” Castiel replied, pulling back and grinning wickedly. Before Dean could process what his boyfriend had just said— _holy shit_ —he was being led away and out the back door. It was the same exit Sam had broken into a year ago, the night the ghost of Nathaniel Newton had tried to stone Cas. It made Dean shiver, imagining there was a moment that his angel had thought he wasn’t wanted. Thought he wasn’t loved.

But over the past year, Dean had made sure he would never be that close to losing Cas again. They had a dangerous job and nothing was ever truly safe for them, but they had spent a decade falling in love...and the past year trying to understand what that love meant. That was one reason Dean had suggested they come back to the Holy Grail one year later. “So we can celebrate the time a rejected, gay ghost tried to stone me?” Castiel had asked dryly. Dean had leaned forward, gently rubbing Castiel’s cheek against his thumb. “No,” he answered, straight-faced, ”so we can celebrate the day we got our heads out of our asses...and started putting cocks in there instead.” Castiel had nearly woken up Sam that morning—three hallways down in the bunker—he had laughed so hard.

And now, they were slipping out the back door of the Holy Grail and running down the nearby alley. Castiel was pulling him along, and Dean felt loopy and feverish and incredibly turned on.

“Cas, let’s go find Baby—” Dean started, but Castiel pushed him against the wall and silenced him with a quick kiss.

“Right here,” Castiel insisted, fumbling with the front button of Dean’s jeans.

“Right where... _oh_ , fuck, Cas,” Dean breathed. Castiel slid his pants and boxers to his knees and, without warning, took Dean’s fully hard cock into his mouth.

This year they had exchanged many blowjobs. In the shower, in bed, in the kitchen, in Baby, in dozens of motel rooms, once even in Sam’s bedroom in the bunker (though they would never, ever, tell him that). Some of their more epic oral exchanges had been slow and teasing, some quick and simple, but _this_ blowjob...in an empty alley at midnight, all sweat and dirt and instinct, outside a gay club in Smith Grove, Virginia, where Dean and Cas had first acted upon their feelings.

This blowjob was making Dean lose his fucking mind.

“Holy shit, Cas, if-if you don’t stop I’m gonna come…”

Castiel swirled his tongue around the slit of Dean’s cock, then popped off softly, grinning. “Isn’t that kind of the point, Dean?”

“Want...more of you.” Dean cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice. “Didn’t I tell you earlier?”

Castiel tilted his head to the side, still on his knees, hands pumping Dean’s cock. “Tell me what?”

Castiel was jacking him off so expertly and _holy hell, why am I stopping this? Oh, yeah…_ “I told you. I want to get fucked by a handsome stranger.”

Castiel smirked and stood up, releasing Dean’s cock. He leaned forward and brushed their lips together. “I know we just met, but for some reason, I feel like I can’t say no to you.”

Dean pushed forward, capturing the angel in a searing kiss. “So don’t,” he whispered.

Castiel distinguished all the nearby street lights with his angel mojo, but Dean still felt incredibly exposed as Castiel swiveled him around, kissing his neck and shoulders before finally pressing the tip of his finger against Dean’s hole. Dean’s breath hitched at the intruding pressure, but he was so used to bottoming that he was quickly fucking into Castiel’s finger and pleading for more. Castiel added another lubed-up finger inside of Dean. Dean, meanwhile, tried to remember how to breathe.

“Where’d...you...get...the...lube?” he asked, panting as Castiel began to scissor him open, trailing kisses over the back of his neck. “Did you mojo it?”

“No,” Castiel answered, rubbing the front of his jeans and rutting against Dean. “I was very inventive. I tucked it in my pocket.”

“Sneaky,” Dean laughed, trying to concentrate on the conversation but _holy shit, Cas just added a third finger and I might actually die here_. “You were...that confident….about getting laid, huh?”

“We drove twenty hours, Dean, and rented a room for three nights. I figured my chances were pretty high.” Castiel leaned in closer, biting Dean’s earlobe and kissing his neck. “Would you agree?”

“I’ll agree to anything you fucking say, as long as you fuck me right now,” Dean whimpered. Castiel’s fingers were freely moving inside Dean, warm and wet and incredible, while his own erection remained a massive bulge straining against his skin-tight jeans. “Come on, Cas, let me feel you…”

“Dean,” Castiel whispered reverently, removing his fingers and craning Dean’s neck, searching for his lips. Dean kissed him back, using his tongue to tease open Castiel’s mouth. He already missed the feeling of fullness from Castiel’s fingers. “Fuck me, please,” he growled, and sighed in relief when he heard a zipper being dragged, followed by the rustling of clothes. Dean breathed into the brickwall, anticipating Castiel’s next move, listening to the familiar sound of lube being generously applied to his boyfriend’s cock. He felt the tip first, accompanied by a burning throb that didn’t feel too uncomfortable, so Dean begged for more. Castiel moaned and slammed into him fully, but stayed stationary behind him, unwilling to move until Dean had adjusted. Dean breathed through the pulsing pain, knowing the discomfort would be replaced soon by insane waves of pleasure.

Once he had acclimated, he whispered, “Cas…” and that was all the encouragement his angel needed. He thrust into him, pulling and out and slamming back in, a rhythm so fast that Dean thought of the techno song they had danced to earlier. Losing himself to the motion of their bodies, he let out a sigh that turned to a laugh, then a soft sob, as he reflected on the incredible weirdness that was his life. Who gets rescued from Hell by an angel, just to fall _so intensely_ in love with said angel, and eventually end up having mind-blowing sex pushed up against a wall in a deserted alley, outside a gay club that was once a church? Dean opened his mouth, intent on sharing his observation with Cas, but then Cas positioned himself just right and _fuck fuck fuck_ , there was Dean’s prostate. His vision turned dark and moaned, calling out Cas’ name over and over, a surge of electricity traveling through his body and making his cock curl with precome.

“Dean,” Castiel rumbled, his voice deep and low and wrecked, “I’m so close.”

“Me too,” Dean said, surprised to coherently string together two words, and took his dick in hand. He had only stroked himself a handful of times before he felt that familiar coil of momentum swirling through his belly. He felt like he was racing towards a cliff, and Cas was there which made it _a thousand times sexier,_ and then they were falling off the edge and flying, but instead of air there was only each other, their bodies connected, entwined in ways that only earth and sky could be, and then they were colliding and gasping and becoming one—

And then Dean came, clenching uncontrollably, his come painting his shirt and the surrounding brick wall. Castiel released inside of Dean seconds after, but he didn’t pull out immediately. He wrapped his arms around Dean and rested his head between his shoulder blades. “You know,” Castiel mumbled, always the first to speak post-organsm, “we should really donate some money to this place.”

Dean snorted, wishing he could see Castiel’s face. “We don’t have any money,” he reminded him. He slid away from Castiel gently, and pulled his boxers and jeans back on, feeling slick and dirty and happily depraved. Castiel did the same, cleaning up where he could, but they would both need a long, hot shower back in the motel. Of course, their showers together usually resulted in them becoming dirty all over again. When it came to Cas, Dean was insatiable.

“True,” Castiel agreed, “but we owe this place a lot. Don’t we?”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean said, smiling. “You know what...I think we really do.”

They slowly started walking towards the Impala. Their hands were dirty and sweaty, but entwined together all the same.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it. The end of my first ever fic! If you enjoyed this story, please drop me a comment or two and let me know! I'd love to hear from anyone and everyone!
> 
> I'm now brainstorming for my next story, which will be a writer/editor Destiel AU. Can't wait to start writing.


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